


grace & choice

by AVeryBlueGirl



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angel Crowley (Supernatural), Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst, Demons, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Fallen Angels, Fem!Crowley, Female Crowley, Gen, Genderbending, Genderswap, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, There is Only One Crowley, Unhappy Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, go!crowley is spn!crowley, so many triggers i'm sorry, spoilers everywhere, starts happy and just goes downhill from there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 38
Words: 113,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVeryBlueGirl/pseuds/AVeryBlueGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley has always been a creature caught in between. Between heaven and hell, grace and sin, love and duty, fate and choice. Caught with opposing forces pulling her, it's only a matter of time before, like a wishbone, she breaks.</p><p>Before she became Queen of Hell, before the Winchesters knew her, before the Apocalypse (take two)...there was just an angel and a demon together. Before everything fell apart.</p><p> <br/>(Don't have to have read Good Omens before, but it'd help. I'm using it to add to SPN!Crowley's background.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the angels, this one is her favorite.

**grace**

 [ _greys_ ]  noun

  **1**.  elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action.  
  **2**.  a pleasing or attractive quality or endowment.   
  **3**.  favor or goodwill.   
**4**. a manifestation of favor, especially by a superior.   
  **5**.  mercy; clemency; pardon.  
**6**.  _Theology_.   
**a**.  the freely given, unmerited favor and love of God.  
**b**.  a virtue or excellence of divine origin:  the Christian graces.  
**7**.  moral strength: the grace to perform a duty.  
**8**.  a formal title used in addressing or mentioning a duke, duchess, or archbishop, and formerly also a sovereign.  

* * *

"... _'Cause I'll know my weakness, know my voice_  
_And I'll believe in **grace and choice**_  
_And I know perhaps my heart is fast,_  
_But I'll be born without a mask._

 _Like the city that nurtured my greed and my pride,_  
_I stretch my arms into the sky_  
_I cry Babel! Babel! Look at me now_  
_As the walls of my town, they come crumbling down_ …"

      - 'Babel', Mumford and Sons 

 

* * *

**  
grace & choice;**

_A Narrative of Certain Events occurring throughout the last six-thousand years of history._

 

Of all the angels, this one is her favorite.

Aziraphale, he’s called. He guards the Eastern Gate, but he's a fair bit kinder than the others. Normally, that isn't something she would appreciate in a person, but it's pleasant because he could be counted on to strike up a conversation rather that smite her on sight.

“Funny thing is,” she murmurs as they watch the distant storm clouds, “I keep wondering whether the apple thing wasn't the right thing to do, as well. A demon can get into real trouble, doing the right things." She grins and nudges the angel. “Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? Funny if I did the good thing and you did the bad thing, eh?”

He doesn't find it amusing in the least, but it makes the demon recall the last time she had done a good thing.

* * *

 She wasn't always a demon, you know. In fact, she had been a Principality **[1]** known as Sariel. **[2]**

That was a long time ago.

She barely remembers anything before her Fall. Bits and pieces, faces and names. But she lost most of those. Instead, she remembers pain. She remembers free fall from heaven into hell—wings flapping helplessly behind her. She remembers terror and confusion and agony. 

But she does not remember what caused her Fall.

Sariel cared.

Crowley does not.

* * *

In the millennia that follow Eden and Mankind's removal therefrom, she and Aziraphale had a strange coincidence to run into each other quite often. **[3]**

Despite that he's The Enemy, she rather enjoys meeting up with him. Nothing like tempting an angel to brighten her day. Whatever may be said about Crowley, never let it be said that she did not enjoy a challenge. Humans, after all, so easily fell to temptation and corruption.

And to be honest, she thinks that a little temptation keeps Aziraphale focused on his goal. **[4]**

Either way, it’s a miniature war after some time. He fights her after her first attempts: two-person battle with their angelic blades that neither ever win but lay waste to many a field. After eight of these battles (which had earn her a praise on each occasion for provoking an angel into fighting her, especially such a soft pacifist), Aziraphale and she had crossed paths sometime in the third century and met under a brief agreed armistice. They'd come up with their Arrangement then. Neither were extremely eager to fight and so they settled into a peaceful agreement.

It goes better than expected. In fact, Crowley catches herself referring to the angel as “my old friend” in the second century. She pauses, considers it, and shrugs to herself before continuing on with her business.

Considering an angel her friend isn't really as strange as it sounded. He is the only person she saw regularly and consistently for millennia, and that left a mark.

Being friends, however, didn't mean she stops trying to tempt him.

But it did mean that he begins his attempts to tempt her into being good. Neither make much progress, but Crowley is surprised to find she doesn't really mind.

* * *

They call her The Serpent of Eden. More commonly, they refer to her as The Temptress.

It's flattering.

The lower demons—twisted human souls—are always a bit in awe of her and stumble over themselves to get out of her way or help her if she asks.  **[5]** They fear and respect the Fallen Angel who brought about Original Sin.

Really, it's all terribly funny to Crowley. After the incident with Eve, she so rarely _really_ sets out to tempt anyone with full effort.  **[6]**

But hey, the title is useful. She gets random commendations whenever someone's been tempted into sin and no one else assumes credit. Which keeps the bosses off her back when she's slacking.

* * *

Aziraphale she finds to be more enjoyable company as time wears on.

He was so wary of her for so long, it was amusing in many ways. But he was always squeamish when she mentioned her plots and schemes. It wouldn't do for him to forget, which he strangely seemed to much of the time, so she keeps subtly reminding him. (It doesn't put him off.)

At one point, they meet up in the angel's current residence and are thoroughly enjoying a lovely bottle of vintage and the drunkenness that it brings.

"You don' like bein' reminded tha Imma demon, Zira," she commented at one point. "Why's that?"

"Because," he slurs, equally drunk, "Makes me think you're a friend for manip-manipulationing me…"

It's a sobering thought and Crowley regretfully clears the alcohol from her body, not wanting the physical effects when her mind has been so abruptly cleared.

"Aziraphale…" she murmured, slightly wounded. "I'd never…I'm not…I'm your friend because I like you and I enjoy your company, not to mention you're one of the few beings I see regularly. Sure, I'll have a go at you sometimes and tease, but…never to hurt you."

During her speech, he had sobered up as well and regarded her sadly.

"Crowley…you're a demon, as you keep reminding me. You're a demon, not an angel like me."

Her cheeks flare red. "That doesn't make you better than me, Aziraphale. I still have my wings and my powers. I'm your equal, your counterpart, the other side of the same coin."

His face clouds with confusion. "But, surely, you don't…feel like we—"

She sits forward suddenly, eyes narrowing furiously.

"Yes, I'm a demon, a _fallen angel_ , thank you. I still have emotions, contrary to what you think. I still feel joy and heartache and friendship and love and hate and anger and sorrow—just like you."

Aziraphale is completely taken aback.

"I—Crowley, you—my dear," he murmurs and catches her slender hand in both of his, waiting for her to meet his earnest gaze. "My dear, I didn't realize. You are always so flippant about everything and I thought…well, it doesn't matter what I thought, I was wrong. And I am terribly sorry. I have misjudged you, and I'm incredibly sorry to have done that to my dearest friend and counterpart."

She nods slowly, swallowing, and clears her throat. "Alright, yes, glad that's settled. I'm your friend and you're mine, jokes aside. Now enough of these mushy sentiments. You have another bottle, don't you?"

He laughs and it rings like a bell. Something in her stomach settles and she smirks as he refills their glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> [1] – In the celestial hierarchy of angel kind, Principalities rank just below the archangels, above the seraphim.  
> [2] – Sariel is often (incorrectly) described by various writers and religious texts as an angel of death, an angel of healing, and occasionally as an archangel (to her amusement). She has, correctly, also been listed as one of the Fallen Angels.  
> [3] - Sometimes, they even ran into each other multiple times within the same century, which was really saying something.  
> [4] – That isn’t why she does it. She does it for the challenge—most certainly not to help him (and she would happily strap anyone who suggested otherwise to a rack in Hell).  
> [5] - She doesn't.  
> [6] - It's debatable how much effort she has put forth, really. Even with Eve, her greatest triumph, that only happened by accident after those downstairs told her to go up and stir some trouble. That was more trouble than she ever intended.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Manipulation of Historical/Political Figures, Seduction, and dub-con kissing (there's no real malicious intent there, but no explicit permission either).

Humans prove themselves as remarkable. Their speed of genius and invention impresses even Crowley.

As their world grows by the day, the Temptress leaves her nomadic life to around the world and decides she quite likes Europe. It's always got such interesting politics, which she loves meddling with.

Unfortunately, that doesn't always work out in her favor.

Circumstances lead her to sending a missive to Aziraphale and he heeds her urgent call quickly, though confused.

“Crowley, what in the world is wrong?” he asks as she shuffles him into her villa. He finds her with a new face, a soft, shapely body on display under the careful folds of her _stola_. Her skin is sunkissed and her hair like a raven’s wing, eyes like the ocean.

“Play along, angel, and it’s Civia,” she murmurs urgently into his ear, before straightening his toga and raising her voice to call, “Gentlemen, my lovely husband Marcus has returned home!”

 

Much later that night, when they are again alone, Aziraphale turns to her in exhausted confusion. “Honestly, my dear…what…?”

She rubs her forehead. “Let me get some wine and I’ll happily explain…” Crowley replies and, after doing such, sighs.

“Was that _actually_ Julius Caesar, my dear?”

She gives a low, throaty laugh. “Yes, it was. I’m…well, I won’t bother you with details. I’ve worked my way into the depths of Roman politics, as you may have guessed by the politicians present for dinner. However, Caesar unfortunately took a shine to me and wouldn’t be dissuaded. I might have told him I was married to a historian who was away on a voyage and only just returned. Hence your presence.”

Well that explained the… _enthusiastic_   kiss she’d pulled him into once they approached her guests.

He pauses. “So you begged a favor of me so you could avoid being Caesar’s mistress?”

Refilling her wine glass, she levels him with a glare. “What? He’s already eating from the palm of my hand, I don’t need to warm his bed to get what I want. A waste of my time and effort.”

He chuckles. It’s been quite some time since he’s seen her. “I do believe I’ve missed you and your customary snark, my dear.”

Crowley simply rolls her eyes. “Don’t get all sappy on me, Zira. Besides, you’re a crappy kisser anyways.” She laughs and grins at him so cheerfully he can’t bring himself to be offended.

Come the Ides of March, Caesar has been stabbed by Brutus at Crowley’s nudging and she’s already left Rome.

* * *

Being Hell’s representative on Earth since the beginning offers her advantages. One is that she does not, unlike all other demons and fallen angels, require a vessel. Her body is her own and she has complete control of it. There is no filter between her and emotions or reactions. She can also change her appearance freely.

This is a useful skill for the Temptress. She could become whatever her mark wanted or desired—male or female or in between, light or dark, young or old, slender or plump, tall or petite. It’s all fluid for her.

Another valuable talent she has is masking her status as one of the fallen—can appear even to archangels as nothing but another harmless human. Perhaps that is the most enjoyable aspect.

* * *

In regards to Aziraphale, she lays off of the temptations for nearly a century, keeping to light-hearted teasing and jokes instead.

Then she stumbles upon him in a pub one evening while disguising herself and she can’t resist the temptation of tempting him. She, at the moment, looks like a lithe, fair woman in her late twenties with shining golden curls and sinfully green eyes. It’s too easy to walk by the wrong group of rowdy, drunken men and nudge them into lust. They approach her, leering, and don’t take her refusal well.

And it is no surprise that the angel, sitting at the far end of the pub, would come to the rescue of a helpless young woman.

“Please,” she asks of her rescuer, “Allow me to drink with you, sir.”

Aziraphale smiles a gentle smile that he somehow retained despite however he changed his appearance. “If you wish, madam.”

They drink and drink. One glass of mead becomes two then six. Finally when the angel is tipsy, Crowley expels the alcohol from her system, leaving her sharp mind clearer than glass. Aziraphale neither notices nor thinks to do the same.

He’s laughing because of a joke she slurs out **[1]** when she slides from her chair into his lap and covers his lips with hers.

Because Aziraphale was mid-laugh, her tongue tangles quickly with his as she settles in his lap, hands grasping his shoulders and pinning him there. It’s easy to press her body against his: breasts to his chest, hips over his.

The angel struggles against her, caught thoroughly off guard. His arms nearly flail through the air; he wants to shove her away but does not want to touch her.

Crowley leans into the kiss, relishing her first real kiss with an angel. He struggles but he isn't frozen and so it's a strange kiss, though not a bad one. His lips are warm and soft as they fumble against hers. She notes the taste: past the liquor, she tastes something like ozone and black tea.

He had stilled under her touch, not knowing what to do—to shove her away or wait for her to stop—but she could feel in his posture the moment he realizes she isn’t planning on stopping anytime soon and so puts a hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her away from him.

As she stares at his handsome face—mid twenties, bronze-haired, with gentle features, blue eyes, and currently swollen, bruised lips—, his eyes roved over her face. Comprehension flows through him as the alcohol evaporates from his bloodstream.

“Crowley,” he said quietly, as if to chastise her. But there’s no real bite to it—no anger, just exasperation and perhaps embarrassment.

The demon’s smile takes a lascivious edge. “Hello, angel,” she greets and taps his nose. “Something you like, hm?”

Angels don’t blush, but if they did, Aziraphale would be.

“I’m afraid I need to take my leave,” he replies smoothly, motioning for her to return to her own seat.

She pouts but stands from his lap. “Why must you reject me so?” she sighs in melodrama. “Why do you delight to torture me?”

The angel does not reply. He merely nods goodbye and departs.

With a sigh, Crowley goes to retrieve for alcohol for herself and resolves to get completely smashed all over again.

* * *

Soon, the fallen angel settles down in London, where history begins to unfold quickly. She’s always liked large cities and this area suits her. 

Twelve years after she settles there, she finds that Aziraphale has set up a bookshop there as his permanent residence.

Immediately, she pays him a visit, by way of strolling into the shop like she owns the place, wearing a killer dress, going straight to him at the counter, and hopping up on said counter to press a kiss to his cheek. **[2]**

He sighs because he knows without asking. "Hello, Crowley. Can I help you with anything?" His eyes remain resolutely on her face but she knows he is looking at other parts of her anatomy through his peripheral vision, even if it's subconscious. So she leans over and ruffles his now-slightly ginger hair, her breasts right in front of him and nearly spilling from the neckline of her dress as she does so. She's rewarded with an actual flush that steals through his cheeks, to her delight and pride.

"I just had to welcome you to the neighborhood, my dear angel," she replies innocently. "It has been so very dull recently. I'm delighted to see you here!"

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "And I'm relieved to find you here. It's been some time, hasn't it?"

Her smile takes a sharp, bitter edge. "Yes, two hundred and six years."

Aziraphale's smile falters momentarily but he nods. "Since the tavern, yes. That sounds right."

She snorts. "And three months and four days, to be precise."

"...I didn't mean to imply that you were incorrect or forgetful," he apologises to her, placating. "I was trying to be... _delicate_."

Something bitter twists her gut and Crowley laughs darkly. "Oh, angel. I think you started to forget who I am."

And he has. The fact that he considers her a friend is evidence enough of that.

He looked to her with started blue eyes. "I know who you are, my dear…” he pauses and grins. “Though not _biblically_ of course. I know you nevertheless. You are called Crowley but you were not always as you are now. You are quite a hedonist and have fine taste as such. You enjoy riding horses but dislike carriages because you find the ride tedious. You like silk and velvet clothing for the texture. You prefer blue over black or red but persist with items of those colors regardless. Vintage wine and whisky are your favorite to drink and you abhor beer and ale, piss-water you call them. You like humans, too, though you'll never admit it." He shakes his head fondly. "I know you, after these millennia, Crowley."

Her amber yellow eyes bores into him fiercely. "No," she whispers. "You forget that I am a demon—one of the fallen. You forget that I left Heaven and left your brothers and sisters who were once my own too. You forget that I am the Temptress, the Serpent of Eden, the creator of Original Sin. You may know me, but you use that to delude yourself into forgetting _what_ I am.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, which ruffles his boyish curls. “Our choices define us, not what we were born or created as,” he replies as he lays a hand on her shoulder softly. The momentary hurt is gone, replaced instead by gentle determination.

The demon snorts. “You are starting to sound like a human, Aziraphale,” she warns, “With your talk of free will. But we _aren’t_ human. We don’t _have_ free will.”

Despite her sharp tone and cold words, her friend offers a small grin. “You can’t live amongst humanity for nearly six thousand years without learning a thing or two.”

Crowley says nothing more on the subject, and Aziraphale lets the issue slide. “What have you been up to in the time since our last parting of ways?"

The demon raises a delicate brow. "Are you sure you want the details, Zira?"

"Oh, you know what I mean, my dear," he chuckles and some of the tension bleeds out of her spine at the endearment.

She shrugs elegantly. "I settled here about twelve years ago. I quite like London, wonderfully miserable weather and such interesting events. Not much to it. The culture is…agreeable, I suppose. It keeps improving, I have high expectations. Give it a few centuries."

He chuckled. "Yes, the people of London are quite lovely, I think."

"Not what I meant, angel," she sighs, smiling slightly despite herself.

"No, but it's what you're thinking," he smiles.

And if she doesn't deny it, he doesn't point it out.

Instead, she waves her hand briskly and makes a bottle of wine appear in his hands. “A welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift, angel,” she tells him as she dismounts from the counter.

“Wait,” Aziraphale exclaims when she turns to the door. “Where’re you off to?”

She turns to glance at him, eyebrows climbing her forehead. “Appointments, meetings, et cetera. I do have a job, you know.”

For a moment, the angel almost looks disappointed, shoulders lowering slightly. “Oh,” he murmurs softly. “Then—who’m I supposed to share this with?”

He motions to the bottle, not having to voice the invitation.

A small smile curls her red lips. “Well, I suppose I can stay for a brief time, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The joke involves a tavern, a farmer, and the devil, which makes the joke even funnier to the angel.  
> [2] If her lips brush across his lips on the way, it's an accident.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apocalypse.  
> Take One.

Time passes and a routine forms.

Aziraphale’s bookshop continues, though he goes to extreme lengths to prevent customers from leaving with any of his precious books. Said extreme lengths are often a source of amusement for the demon, when she isn’t roped into participating in them. He continues on, content with his collection of books. Aesthetically, he barely changes either. The briefly-ginger hair soon returns to his usual blond curls and he doesn’t bother change his looks.

As for Crowley, she changes her appearance nearly every day to suit whomever was the focus of any of her plots. But, at the end of the day, she returns to a normal form when she goes to see Aziraphale. It is an appearance she adopted long ago and frequently catches herself going back to. Eventually, it becomes her default, as her seductions peters off and she acts as a succubus less frequently.

Though the Temptress begins to slowly stop seducing people for her plans, that does not mean her aesthetic standards waver. She is a vain creature at heart, and she takes pride in it whenever a man runs into a closed door or a woman trips on a curb while they are distracted by the sight of her. She enjoys the admiring stares she receives. (And it’s not because she’s tempting people into sinful lust.)

Her hair is long, dark, and curly; her eyes are warm amber and often hidden behind sunglasses; her skin is a slight olive tone and unblemished; her face is all angles and elegance; her figure is curvaceous and tall.

And as times changed, so too does her style and manner of dress, though it’s always similar: a bold blood red or deep black dress that clung to every line and curve of her body. Though it is nothing particularly revealing, it draws the eye like a moth to a flame.

So you might find it understandable why she chooses such an appearance: it inspires lust in many people, envy in others, and (more frequently than he admits to or is aware of) distraction in a particular angel.

* * *

 And so both parties of the Arrangement remain in London and in frequent contact. Whenever he isn’t convincing sinners to repent or rewarding good deeds, Aziraphale runs his bookshop, collects some fine wines to share with his friend, and tries to bring out the good in the demon. After a long day of temptation, manipulation, and the occasional seduction **[1]** , Crowley enjoys bothering the angel until he closes shop and acquiesces to a night of drinking or dinner at the Ritz.

It’s simple and easy and enjoyable.

Until the bloody Antichrist happens.

* * *

To be fair, in hindsight, Adam wasn’t really to blame but at the time she rather hates him for what he heralds.

The Antichrist means the End of Times is near. The Antichrist means Horsemen and Armageddon and the Adversary. The Antichrist means a looming battle between “good” and “evil”—between the two sides that Crowley and Aziraphale are neatly divided between.

They sit in St. James Park (and later Zira’s bookshop) and discuss it all—ineffable plans of the diabolic and divine variety—and her throat is tight with urgency as they talk.

She pleads her case with notes about Heaven’s taste, about music and restaurants, about this quaint human world they have adapted to and come to love.

 _Please_ , she thinks, _Agree with me. For once in your existence, pick me over Heaven, pick me._

Of course, Crowley has her pride and she would never say that aloud or mention that in the argument. She knows how their friendship works, knows his nature. Aziraphale would listen to teasing bits about creature comforts of the human world; were she to bring herself into this temptation (for that is what it is), he would end it all together.

Zira was never tempted by her. **[2]**

By her words, sometimes; by her arguments, occasionally. By _her?_ That was absurd to think and to test it would be an affront to him.

Her words work. Her petty temptations of humans’ modern world and creature comforts and books and wine and restaurants and antique shops and crosswords—they work. She all but begs and pleads, and she’s fully prepared to do that too, if only ever for Zira, but she doesn’t have to.

The angel meets his eyes, nods firmly, and simply says, “Alright.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “Truly? You’re with me?”

He smiles warmly. “That’s what I said, my dear. From here on out, it’s us against Heaven and Hell, no matter what comes after us for it.”

A lot comes after them.

But in the end, it’s them between a handful of humans, including the Antichrist, and the Adversary and what seems to be the coming End.

“You don’t mean we should actually try and stop _Him_?” she exclaims.

“What have you got to lose?” Aziraphale asks calmly. And it makes her stop. What _does_ she have to lose? Not much, that’s for certain. Nothing that wasn’t already taken from her. Nothing else could be done to her, really. The only thing she had left to lose…is the angel before her. And he’d risk himself anyways, with or without her. 

Well. He certainly wasn't going to do anything so foolish without her. Not while she had a say.

She hadn’t changed clothes in all the time of this madness. She’s still in an elegant dark blue dress **[3]** and heels. _Hell on high heels_ , she thinks with a smirk and decides if she’s going to die (actually, truly _die_ ) fighting the apocalypse, she’s going to look damn good while doing it. (A vain creature, remember?)

“I’d like to say,” Zira says to her quietly, as though they are enjoying a quiet evening in his bookshop not the soon-to-be-ground-zero of the apocalypse, “if we don’t get out of this, that…I’ll have known, deep down inside, that there was a spark of goodness in you.”

“That’s right, make my day,” she mutters sharply to hide the warmth unferling in her breast.

He smiles anyway and offers his hand. “Nice knowing you.”

Something catches in her throat as she grasps it tightly, threading her fingers through his. “Here’s to the next time and…Aziraphale?”

“Hm?”

Crowley hesitates, words fighting on her tongue to escape, before she simply replies, “Just…just remember that I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.”

Just like in all the years past, whenever she said something they both secretly knew meant more than it seemed, he smiles gently, that pure angelic smile of joy that warmed her (not quite so) black heart.

They both nod to each other, communicating without words.

The backs of Aziraphale’s jacket and Crowley’s dress split as their wings sprout and grow, fully manifested for what was surely far too long. Zira’s are pure downy white, as if they were made of clouds, of course. The Fallen angel’s wings are like shadows made corporeal, black as obsidian rock, though lighter grey down lighten the feathers near the joints, if you look closely. The blond man’s wings are slightly tousled, as if he had not groomed them in a bit too long, but the demon’s were neat and pristine. **[4]**

And if Crowley has to choose a way to go…this is possibly the best way she could have imagined. She’s got Aziraphale at her side, hand in hers. She’s got her wings loose and free, with a weapon in hand—ready to fly and fight. To fight for her dear angel and for the world they had so long called their home.

 

But it isn’t the end at all. Adam, of course, prevents it.

Crowley’s tire iron-wielding arm falls to her side in shock. “Just…just like that…?” she murmurs in dumb disbelief.

Her hand, which is still in her companion’s grasp, is squeezed gently. “Just like that,” Aziraphale replies softly, in awe. “It’s over.”

“I guess our presence wasn’t really required all too much, then,” she mutters wryly. “So much for fighting the Powers That Be and all that rubbish.”

Aziraphale smiles slightly. “You needn’t have listened to me at all, nor come with me.”

It startles a laugh from her lips, a laugh more genuine than any he had heard in years from her. “Oh, angel,” she sighs, shaking her head. “I’d have come anyways. There wasn’t much of a question about it.”

He stares at her and something like awe settles on his face. When he remains in that state for a few moments, Crowley turns to lay a hand on his shoulder in concern. “Angel?”

Rather than speak, his response is to lean close and—quickly, so quickly she nearly thought she imagined it—presses his lips to her cheek in simple gratitude and companionship. It’s brief and chaste and the most innocent kiss she’s ever received, but it causes a bright flush to rise to her cheeks and her mouth to go dry. ( _No,_ she tells herself, _Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare even hope. He’s grateful and happy, that’s it._ )

“I—Zira?” she stutters. “Angel—I don’t—how do I respond to that?” she murmurs, mostly to herself.

Aziraphale chuckles fondly. “I haven’t ever seen you so flustered, my dear.”

She stares at him and then shakes herself to focus, calming the storm of confusion raging in her mind. “Later,” she decides quietly. “After we make sure this mess is cleaned up.”

Crowley does not know if she's looking forward to that conversation or dreading it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] - She doesn’t prefer that last one, though. It’s hard work, tiresome, and sometimes difficult, but she generally keeps her attractive form and that makes things easier. In the end, while it may be temporarily pleasant, her usual partners are not at all her type. And no, she wouldn’t say she had a type, much less give any hints about who might have been her type.  
> [2] - “But you’re part of it,” he’d slurred. “You tempt people. You’re…you’re good at it!” Not to the person that meant most, apparently. “…Don’t you try to tempt me. I know you, you old serpent,” he scolds her—only for mentioning theatres and films. She ignores the sting of it and continues.  
> [3] - Rare did she stray from a colour palette of black or crimson, though she indeed preferred blue. She always thought that blue wasn’t very demonic and so stuck with the more appropriate black and red. But it always brings a small smile of pride to Aziraphale’s face when he sees her in another, less traditionally diabolic color.  
> [4] - She was unashamedly vain about them, too, and kept them neat as possible, while the angel was somewhat absentminded about the state of his.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Post-Traumatic Stress and Explicit Sexual Content.

When they finally return to the bookshop (which Adam has graciously fixed), Crowley collapses onto the couch and kicks off her heels. She promptly makes a large glass of _very_ old and _very_ fine whisky and takes a long drink.

Only then does the tension begin to melt from her body.

“So, now that we know the world isn’t ending and everything is settled and back to normal, do you want to explain what that was back there?”

The angel, now sans his coat, settles at the opposite end of the couch. “A kiss, my dear. A mannerism generally used to convey affection or similar emotions. A concept you introduced me to some centuries ago.”

She nearly drops the whisky. “Introduced—” She stops to let out an impressive stream of curses in a multitude of forgotten ancient tongues. Aziraphale doesn’t even tut at her for it. “Sometimes, angel,” Crowley eventually replies, “I underestimate your innocence. Or forget it…no matter. Not the subject of this conversation. _Why_ did you do that, Aziraphale?”

The angel sobers at the use of his full name, so rarely heard from her lips nowadays. “I kissed you because I care about you, Crowley. And then seemed as good a time as any.”

Her chest tightens just as her heart swells, a mixture of joy and fear filling her breast.  “You shouldn’t,” she responds quietly, eyes on the liquor in her hands. “You shouldn’t have—have kissed me or care for me. We’ve ignored that fact for so long now…toed the line in the sand, flirted with disaster.”

“I hardly think that’s a concern at the moment, dear.”

Her lips thinned. “I am not referring to the apocalypssse!” she hisses sharply. “You could _fall_ , Aziraphale. You might fall because of this—”

“My dearest Crowley, calm yourself,” the blond angel murmurs, clasping her hands in his. “I won’t fall because of my association with you. Whether you mean be simply being too close, that’s impossible; if you mean by the Powers That Be discovering it, well, I think our little display right in front of them all would be more important than this.” He smiles again, that genteel gesture of fondness that she’s come to know so well. “And even if it was, it would be worth it.”

Her head shoots up; the glass shatters on the floor. “ _Don’t say that!_ ” she exclaims vehemently, urgently. “Don’t even think about it!”

It startles him. “Crowley…was falling that bad?”

Her eyes clench shut—

_—falling, falling so far, from Heaven to the pits of Hell—pain tearing through her, making her writhe as she fell—pain so intense, so fiery. Holy oil-fueled fire was nothing compared to it, no earthly torment could ever compare to such a pain—pain so intense, it ravaged her mind and made her lose so much of her life beforehand, and she could barely hold on to her name, much less her dearest friend—it was Falling, it was plummeting through the air and into the brimstone-filled pit—nothing could ever compare—_

—and the thought of Aziraphale experiencing it—of him knowing that pain and torture—

—of pure, kind Aziraphale forced to serve Hell—of him being at the command of the monsters she called bosses—of him being cut off from all that was good in the world to assist evil and sin—

“Crowley?” he murmurs, laying a soft palm on her clenched fists. She seizes his hand and meets his eyes fiercely.

“ _Never_ think such a thing, Aziraphale. Stop right there and turn back. I forbid it. Nothing about that would _ever_ be worth falling—worth that pain—worth _any of it_. Being friends with me, allies with me…you can’t…I am not worth that price, that pain—” She stops, trembling in fury too much to continue. She forces herself to breath as she clenches her eyes shut and pulls away from the angel.

But Aziraphale pulls her right back and clasps her pale face between his gentle hands. When she meets his eyes, he finally speaks.

“I don’t know how I ever thought there _wasn’t_ good in you,” Zira tells her and smiles before tugging her close.

She’s still shaking—from their supposed doom, the unexpected result, the peck on her cheek, to his words and she doesn’t know what else—and she trembles against his chest as she hugs him too. “You bastard,” she mutters into his tartan sweater vest and closes her eyes, allowing herself one sweet moment of delusion before pulling away, out of his arms.

He chuckles in amusement.

“Don’t ever talk about falling for _me_ of all damned things.” She intends for the words to be a stern command, but it escapes as something a bit closer to a plea.

The angel merely replies, “If the issue ever comes up, I will endeavor to avoid falling, I swear.”

It’s the most she can get him to agree to, but at least it’s something.

* * *

Life…well. Life _goes on_.

Crowley doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. Between her and Aziraphale, something…something is different. Something’s shifted, unspoken, unacknowledged.

She does not like it.

Despite this, having no orders from downstairs, she spends most of her time with him.

She’s bored one day and bothering the angel, trying to make things feel like they had before, not this strange, uneasy tension. Her awkward, desperate attempts only serves to irritate Aziraphale until he’s had enough and sits down tiredly.

"What do you want, Crowley?" He finally sighs. "Why’re you here with me when you should probably be seducing a politician or corrupting a banker? Or thwarting my miracles rather than watching and bothering me later?”

For a single moment, hurt flashes across her face but it’s gone before Aziraphale can really think about it.

"I am tired, Angel. So tired," she murmurs and shakes her head. "I _like_ life here on Earth. For all their respective vices and virtues, I…I like humans. I just...I don't like being Hell's attack dog, fighting you tooth and nail on command. It is annoying, it is unproductive, it is pointless, it is a waste of time, energy, and resources—for _both_ of us."

"And we could accomplish so much more together," he continues on, jokingly, with a small quirk of his lips.

The demon, for once, is unsure how much of it truly is a joke, how much a genuine guess at her thoughts.

She shakes her head, giving up on deciphering it. "No, it's not even for the sake of business that I'm talking of this. It's just…" she hesitates. "Lonely. This life on Earth is lonely. You are the only face I see consistently. The only face I _like_ to see consistently, anyways. You're good company, good conversation—and you have excellent taste, well, except the tartan. I don't…I don't _like_ being forced to attempt to foil your plans or try to kill you, and you’ve made it _quite_ clear about my seductions. I'm so tired of it. I can't do it anymore. I'm not going to bother try. You've been my enemy for millennia but…you've become a friend, you know that. I just can’t do it anymore. Not even the stupid half-hearted attempts that I've been doing the past two centuries. I don't care about it anymore. Why bother? I just want to spend time with my friend now.”

The angel nods slowly. "Yes…I suppose we do have an unexpectedly close friendship. I've come to enjoy it, depend on it, and…I understand, in some ways."

Relief washes over her features like a wave crashing onto the sand. "Thank you."

He smiles, but hums in thought. "Though I am surprised to hear you disliked having to, erm, use your wiles on me."

Her smile fades and tightens as she forces it to stay. "A girl can only hear 'no' so many times," she says with a lightness she does not feel, looking over his shoulder at the dust motes in the sunlight from the window, if only to avoid his eyes.

His hand, soft and gentle, curls around hers. "My dear…"

The demon snatches her hand away immediately, her usual posture returning when she heard the pity in his voice.

"Don't you dare pity me, Aziraphale!" She snaps, pride wounded and heart bruised.

His eyes cloud in soft guilt. "Crowley, just think—what's one target's rejection if they're the only one to do so. What does it matter? So many others don't, really—"

She stands and distances herself, throwing on a jacket quickly. "Did you ever think—did you ever consider…” she trails off and groans in frustration. “Oh, what's the point?” She turns to storm out but he catches her arm, pulling her back to face him.

"Did I ever consider what, Crowley?" He asks softly.

The demon grinds her teeth together before blowing out the air she'd been holding in. _Fuck it_ , she thinks. She has to say it, finally, if only to get it out. She’ll leave then, probably won’t be welcomed back but…she has to.

After so many millennia of leaving it unacknowledged, of hiding it from him, and now this strange strain between them…she finally allows the truth to slip from her lips.

"How can you say it doesn't matter when you were the only one that mattered?” she whispers. “Did you ever consider that maybe you weren't just a mark? That I never got orders to seduce you—well, at least, not since the very beginning? That I—that I am so terrible at expressing affection that just maybe I was trying to show it in the only way I know how?"

Awe fills his face and he is beautiful. Before she can turn to run, he pulls her into his arms for an embrace and none such before had ever felt so intimate and warm.

"My dearest Crowley," Aziraphale murmurs into her dark curls. "Surely you do not feel this way…"

She looks away guiltily. "I…What difference does it make? I'm still a demon. I can't—that is, we don't—"

"Why of course you can!” He exclaims, almost offended, and pulls away to look her in the eyes. “My dear, when an angel falls, they are the same at heart. Falling is not inherently equivalent to becoming evil. That is a choice. Your choice which you made halfheartedly. Why—you're no more evil than young Adam. You taught me that, remember? Ages ago, I was too prejudiced to see it, or perhaps too afraid to believe it. I don’t know how, though, in retrospect, I _didn’t_ see it. Ever since that day, you’ve done nothing but demonstrate that fact to me!”

The dark-haired woman glanced at him with tender eyes and rueful lips. "Were it not for you, Zira, I would have died millennia ago. As much as I enjoy this life upon earth, if I did not have your company…I would lose Faith or would have ripped out my Grace to become human."

"Surely not!" he interjects in abject terror and horror, pulling her closer in concern.

"I considered it," Crowley admits. "In the ninth century. Life was just…tedious monotony and I was losing Faith. I hadn't, but I was about to. I was so very tempted to become mortal and live out my days as such, but you…The thought of you prevented me. The thought of leaving you alone on this Earth. You didn't deserve that,” she whispers, again avoiding his gaze. “And then I realized that what little Faith I had left…it was built upon my belief in you. That you'd always be here. That you'd always guard humanity and stop my forced schemes from reaching fruition. That you would be you."

His eyes water as he searches her face. “I hadn’t…Oh Crowley… I didn't dare consider it, for fear of breaking my own heart."

His words leave her shattered in the implication and she clings to him—arms tight about him, fingers curling into his shirt, face pressed into his neck.

It feels like finally coming home.

* * *

"Come, let's get dinner, my dear," he says when they finally, reluctantly part.

"The Ritz?" She proposes, composing herself and returning to her usual demeanor, if somewhat softer.

"Of course, just allow me to lock up the shop before we go," he murmurs, smiling cheerfully, and goes to the back of the shop.

When he returns, he finds Crowley has changed clothes (not that it was difficult for a demon). Her sensual, clinging red dress has been swapped for an elegant if simple dark blue ensemble. It is less provocative, less revealing than that previous, but she is no less beautiful.

The angel offers Crowley his arm and, when she accepts it, presses a soft kiss to her cheek. "You're lovely, Crowley. But you needn't change for me."

She tosses her head back and laughs. "Zira, I changed because I wanted to, not because it was required of me. Besides, you're right, I _do_ favor this shade and I haven't worn it much lately…and thank you for the compliment, angel."

At the Ritz, their usual waitress (a young uni student who always finds them an excellent table and ensures excellent service to two of her favorite customers) sees how close they are standing and recognizes the glances between them, and so escorts them to a secluded booth in a corner, winking at Crowley behind Aziraphale's back.

Crowley is left to wonder how obvious they are.

Their meal progresses as it normally does with their usual discussion. The only difference is unspoken for most of their dinner—it's the hand Aziraphale lays over hers, the way their feet mingle under the table, how he blushes with pleasure as she laughs at a joke of his, the softer smile she offers him rather than her usual smirk.

It’s subtle and simple, the shift between them, but it sings between them like a symphony and it’s the happiest they’ve been in ages.

* * *

As the night wears on, they wine, dine, and make merry, laughing and having a wonderful time until they eventually leave the Ritz, late into the night.

“My place, for a change?” she suggests lightly.

“If you’d like,” the angels agrees with a smile, at ease. She nods and ushers him to the Bentley.

He’s never been to her home, she realizes as she unlocks the door and welcomes him inside. “It’s lovely,” he comments approvingly as he removes his coat and places it on a coat rack.

“Thank you,” the demon smiles.

Her home is spacious and clean, so unlike Zira’s cramped, messy flat, and is filled with modern, sleek furniture, though the soft throw blankets and pillows soften the look. Lamps and a fireplace fill the living room with warm, intimate lighting. The plentiful houseplants are scattered about near the windows, a surprising touch of life.

“What’ll it be?” she asks, opening a sizeable liquor cabinet. He follows and kneels beside her, warm and relaxed near her as he studies the contents before selecting a lovely white wine.

When they both have their glasses, they return to the living room. Aziraphale sits on one end of the sofa and Crowley settles beside him. She kicks off her heels and tucks her feet under her, as she leans a bit closer to Zira. He smiles, glad for the closeness between them, and she finds herself smiling back.

They enjoy the wine, but enjoy each other’s company more. They talk and bicker and tease and laugh and it’s wonderful. At some point, the angel complements her verdant houseplants. She’s rambling on about her process of caring for them, and the wine has her feeling so light and buoyant. She’s so warm, right now, so at home, resting against Zira’s shoulder, and her world has been constricted to the two of them.

She’s explaining how she intimidates the plants into growing when

When Zira sets his mostly-full wine glass on the coffee table and leans closer to her, wrapping his arms comfortably around her waist as she stutters to silence. She smiles, settling comfortably against his chest, and meets his warm eyes.

One hand cups her cheek gently, ever so gently and carefully.

Crowley leans forward and kisses him.

Of course, she’s kissed him before, but it had never really been a real kiss. His lips are warm and soft against hers, and she sighs against his mouth as she presses her cheek against the warmth of his palm.

His lips are gentle, nudging against hers even when she coaxes his mouth open to her delight.

After several minutes of gentle snogging, they break apart. Aziraphale appears thoughtful. “That was…pleasant,” he smiles.

It startles a soft laugh from her. “I’m glad. I thought so too. But, ah, Zira…I’m not made of glass.”

He grins and they kiss again—this time, it’s livelier and more heated. She moans when she feels one of his hands sliding up her back to cradle the back of her neck before tangling in her hair. She feels Aziraphale smile into the kiss and nips at his bottom lip, which startles a moan from him.

The demon’s hands wander under his shirt, feeling the supple skin waiting for her, and is a bit surprised to feel him shiver under her clever fingers. She would smirk, if she wasn’t preoccupied by the angel’s tongue exploring her mouth. Crowley is, however, surprised when a hand slides down to her arse, massaging her flesh and making her gasp in delight.

They slowly slide down to a more horizontal position, Zira stretched above her as his mouth leaves her mouth to attack her neck. She groans under his ministration—inexperienced, but observant and quick—as he suckles a mark under her left ear.

“Darling,” she starts. “Not in front of the plants, they’ll never fear me again if we can continue.”

He straightens quickly, face flushed red as he turns away, and she understands her mistake. Laying a hand upon his arm, she smiles. “That doesn’t mean we can’t continue in the bedroom, if you’d like. It’s down the hall, last door on the left…”

The invitation hangs in the air for a moment, the demon not wanting to push him too far, but he takes her pause as an opportunity.

Crowley squeals when he scoops her up into his arms, against his chest—carrying her to the bedroom. She takes the time in transit to nibble on his bobbing Adam’s apple.

They land on her king-sized bed in a rushed heap, and Crowley finds herself rubbing against him.

He moans in enjoyment as he laves her neck. “You always have your hair up,” he tells her in between kisses and nips. “Leaving the line of your neck exposed—so _beautiful_ —thought you did it on purpose to tease me.”

“Didn’t—didn’t know that,” she pants, clutching his shoulders. Meanwhile, his hands find her breasts and his mouth leaves her skin so he can look as he cups the full weight of them through the fabric of her dress. “Magnificent,” he murmurs and squeezes them teasingly.

She cries out in surprise. “Not fair!” He chuckles into her collarbone, before sucking a mark there as well.

With barely a twitch of her eye, she vanishes his shirt and grins at the skin revealed. 

“I have a feeling that’s cheating, my dear,” he murmurs in amusement.

Grinning, Crowley replies, “What did you expect, angel?” before catching his mouth and drawing him into a kiss that curls her toes and makes her lift her hips to grind against him. He meets her there and presses against her too, and a flush of pleasure steals across her face as her hands map out the plains of his pale, freckled chest.

The straps of her dress have fallen halfway down her arms from her shoulders, teasing to leave more of her breasts exposed. He tugs the fabric further before informing her, “My dear, this dress is lovely, but I think you’d be so much lovelier without it.”

He grins and the dress is gone, leaving her in naught but a thin, lacy, midnight blue bra and matching underwear. Aziraphale fumbles with the clasp of her bra before she laughs and takes mercy on him, vanishing it as well. He cradles her breasts gently and glances at all of her with an expression of reverent awe. “Oh, Crowley, you’re beautiful,” he kisses her lips again before going to her breasts.

Though she isn’t particularly well-endowed at the moment, it seems to make no difference to Zira, who handles them with awe and kisses them with delight. He licks a nipple experimentally and, after, seems to gather quickly how she most enjoys attention to her bust.

She moans and fists her hands in his blond hair, unable to resist the slow torment he unknowingly inflicts.

“ _Zira_ ,” she eventually pants. “ _Zira…darling_ …” She nudges her hips against him, biting her lip, so close from so very little. He smiles and kisses her before traveling down her body to pull the lace down and reveal her. He finds her wet, swollen, and pink under a dark patch of hair, and he is quick to begin exploring with his fingers and tongue. It sends her legs writhing and kicking, before squeezing around him in warning.

She squirms under his perusal and attention. “Zira, time for that later. I want you now.”

God, she was a succubus, and here she was all but begging an angel who had no experience beyond the present. Maybe that was why, though—it was Zira.

Zira who had refused her so many times. Zira who turned away from her every time before. Zira who she had silently ached to accept her offers, just once. Zira, who she cares for so much. Zira, who is here and warm and tender to her, so curious and kind to her body. Zira, who is not here for her body, who is here for _her_ and—

 _Damn it_ , she was a demon, she wouldn’t get all maudlin over this.

“Get up here, angel,” she orders playfully and he climbs back up to kiss her again with an indulgent grin. She pulls away though, to reach down and shove his slacks down, and the boxers with them. He kicks them off and out of the way.

“Crowley,” he groans, his cock nudging against her netherlips.

She trembles under him. “Please, Zira—please!”

The angel smiles to her, and she can’t help but smile back. He slides into her slowly, making her cry out in joy and pleasure.

So he isn’t the most skilled or largest lover she’s ever had. He is Aziraphale, and he is the only one that matters to her.

She throws her head back in delight and he is there, mouthing again at the exposed skin, gasping and moaning. For a moment, when he’s finally completely in her, neither can do anything but moan and sigh as they enjoy the feeling for the first time.

Both cry out when he thrusts forward shallowly.

“Not—glass!” she reminds him in a gasp and the next thrust is stronger.

“Oh, God, Crowley,” he groans. “So wet and hot—for me. Oh my dear… _oh_ ,” he nearly squeaks when she tightens around him. “Oh, my dear…” The Temptress grins and pulls him down, mouth nibbling on his shoulder, determined to leave as many marks upon him as he has on her.

They don’t last long, writhing and clinging and grinding and thrusting against each other as they are.

He thrusts in completely, hips pressed to hers, as one of his hands travels between them to rub against her clit, and she can’t hold back her climax anymore. She orgasms, clutching her limbs around him, and screams, “ _Aziraphale!_ ”

The angel only lasts a few more thrusts into her tight, trembling folds before he spends himself with a gasp of her name.

In the bliss afterwards, Crowley finds herself pinned under his larger body and weight, though not uncomfortably, and runs her fingers through his curls, at ease and satisfied with the world.

Minutes later, after his softening length has slipped from her, he sits up a bit and smiles. “If I’d had known it would be anything like that, my dear…I would not have been able to deny you once.”

She laughs breathlessly. “Doesn’t matter now. I’ve got you now. ‘m happy.”

The blond man pulls her closer to him and smiles into the mess that he’s created of her hair. “So am I,” he whispers. “So am I.”

She nuzzles into the arms surrounding her. “Good.”

* * *

They spend the night there in her bed, entwined and clinging. Her feet and hands are cold against him, and she pulls all the blankets from him in her sleep, even though she curls into him, but Zira is warm enough without the layers and holds her anyways.

They sleep, content.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Serious Self-Esteem Issues, Endangerment of a Child, Discussion about the Nature of Good and Evil, Graphic Depictions of Violence
> 
> Recommended Listening: "Timeless", Airborne Toxic Event.

Sometimes Aziraphale forgets that Crowley's first corporeal form was a serpent.

It doesn't cross his mind often until the next afternoon in his bookshop, as he comes across a fine edition of Milton's Paradise Lost with a beautifully detailed snake coiled upon the spine.

The demon is with him, lounging at a table with some paperback fiction novel holding her focus, oblivious to Zira's observation.

She's been around more often, since…well, the, err, progression of their relationship the other night. Not that he minds, of course—her company or their copulation. Just thinking the word brings a flush to his face at the flashes of memory summoned—the soft curve of her lips against his, the way she tossed her head back in pleasure, the graceful lines of her body, the emotion in her voice as she cried out his name.

He coughs and changes the subject of his thoughts, glancing back at the tome in his hands.

But, despite her human form, she retains many of her serpentine qualities. He sees them everyday, though it has never before occurred to him as such.

As he observes her, Crowley yawns widely, jaw lowering further than it should. After a sigh leaves her, she closes her mouth, though her jaw works sideways momentarily, as if realigning. As if she had unhinged her jaw.

It makes him consider other similarities.

She moves with preternatural grace, the motions of her body fluid and smooth. Slow and calculated one second, sudden and precise when striking with shocking speed.

When she's particularly furious, her pupils become elongated into slits like those of reptiles, and she has a strange habit of blinking far less often than humans should, even when she's at her calmest. She watches carefully with that observant gaze, missing nothing, with the awareness of a predator.

Not to mention how she hisses when she gets drunk or angry. Secretly, he finds it rather endearing, knowing that it only happens when she allows herself to relax her control and composure, or when her guard is down. When she hisses, he knows that she's utterly sincere in her reactions.

"Are you just going to stare all day, angel, or are you going to admire from a closer distance?" She asks teasingly, seeing his stare.

He laughs, and she sets aside her novel to stand before him, wrapping her arms loosely about his neck and allowing him to pull her closer by her waist.

For a moment, he studies her face closely, the sharp cheekbones and small lines and long eyelashes and now-verdigris grey eyes. He studies the fond, gentle smile upon her lips and the warm affection in her eyes. He studies what lies beneath, the Grace he can feel inside her being—damaged and darkened, but shining iridescently, and warm like sitting before a campfire. It make the air leave his lungs in wonder.

“You are so beautiful, my dear,” he murmurs breathlessly. “And I am so grateful to be yours.”

She blinks. Pauses. Blinks twice more. And stares.

Slowly, a lovely awe appears on her face too, and he is surprised to see a small tear slip from her left eye. He brushes it away with a gentle touch and she catches his hand, nuzzling her cheek into his palm. “As I am yours,” she whispers back.

He catches her lips and presses a loving kiss to her full lips. It's slow and languid, without the raw passion and heat of the previous night, but instead, a gentle emotion filling him.

Their mouths dance together, easily and comfortably as they slot their bodies closer.

One of her hands begins tracing patterns across his back, sending shivers through him and causing him to deepen the kiss as his hands invade the bun of her hair to remove the pins.

She sighs into his mouth, happy to let him take the reins, as she curves up against him, hair spilling down her back.

Eventually, the demon pulls away to whisper breathlessly, "Take me to bed, Aziraphale."

He disentangles himself to quickly lock the door of the bookshop and turn the sign to inform customers of his absence before they sojourn to his bedroom upstairs.

Quickly as they enter, Crowley blinks and Aziraphale finds himself suddenly quite nude, his tartan jumper and trousers gone. "My dear, that's cheating," he reminds her, chuckling.

This time, as Aziraphale presses her into the mattress, he is slow to reveal her body, despite her protests. The windows of his room light it and in the soft filtered light of a cloudy London afternoon, he can see every part of her as he goes.

She shudders as he unbuttons her blouse and kisses the soft flesh revealed underneath the fabric, exploring and learning her body studiously. He worships the soft weight of her breasts, mouthing at her puckered nipples and worrying the surrounding skin with little nips and teases of his tongue.

With her blouse and brassiere removed, he turns his attention to her trousers and shifts them slowly down her long legs, reveling at the smooth, fair flesh he uncovers.

As he kisses his way back up to her hips, she trembles under him. "Angel," Crowley whines, pouting. "You're teasing me."

"I can't help it, you're lovely," he says into the warmth of her inner thigh. "I can't resist you, my dear. I want to learn every part of you."

With careful hands, he turns his attention to her folds, pulling her legs wider and spreading her so he can see all of her. He finds Crowley hot, flushed, and moist with arousal. She trembles as his breath fans over her sensitive flesh, throwing her head back into a pillow, fingers fluttering and curling in the sheets.

Aziraphale is and has always been a very precise, detail-oriented person who likes to seek out knowledge for the sake of discovery. In this, it is not an exception. He delights in exploring the depths of her, with his fingers and later his mouth, to see how she trembles, how she gasps, how she cries out, how she flies apart. He learns every noise and categorizes them by their cause, happy to learn more of Crowley.

"Zira…please," she eventually whines. "Please, I need you!"

He climbs back up to kiss her again before lining himself up and slowly sliding into her. Crowley cries out into his mouth as he fills her entirely and he groans, unable to help himself.

Despite how quick and fervent the other night had been, today is different. Aziraphale is nearly reverential in his exploration and worship of her body, thrusting and sliding with slow, thorough strokes.

He can't possibly know that it is completely undoing her. She was a succubus, well sometimes—sex was nothing new to her. But it had never been like this, gentle and sweet and _emotional_.

She begins to think that she can get used to it being like this.

* * *

In the afterglow, they simply lay, curled together and warm and happy. His fingers wander across her back, tracing shapes across her flesh, sometimes causing her to giggle as he brushes by ticklish spots while he smiles into her shoulder. After a few minutes, his tracing travels from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back and he pauses, sitting up curiously.

She turns her head to watch him.

"Scales?" He murmurs in surprise, finding a few scattered like freckles at the small of her back, just above the curve of her buttocks.

She hums. "I've got a few here and there. Reminders."

"Reminders of what?" He asks, brushing a hand over the iridescent scales.

There is a heavy pause before she shrugs. "Reminders of the past. Of humanity…Of the Garden and mistakes. Of the consequences thereof and all that's come of it since."

He presses a delicate kiss to the small of her back and sets about discovering her scales. He finds them scattered, only a few here and there, across her body—the inner sides of her ankles along the curve of the bones; the back of her neck just below her hairline; curving down the right side of her hips; curling behind the back of her left ear.

They remain in bed for house, lying in silence, with no more than wandering brushes of hands and a few brief kisses. Eventually she yawns widely and curls up around him, limbs snaking about, as she settles her head on his chest above his heart.

Crowley is asleep in minutes, curled up tightly around him. He doesn't mind, feeling quite touched at her easy comfort with him.

But he smiles and presses his face in the silk of her curls and kisses her head gently, so incredibly happy and unable to hide his content, warm smile.

Lying there as she slept clinging to him, the angel wonders to himself if this is what love feels like.

* * *

Demons do not love. So some say. In truth, they aren't allowed. Much less loving an angel. 

Crowley loves Aziraphale anyway. 

For the longest time, neither say it. They share romantic evenings, sweet dinners, passionate nights, comfortable hours in the bookshop, loving looks... But neither say it.

They know it. Oh how they know it.

On the edge of sweet release at night, the words would catch in his throat—unsaid but audible to both. She would kiss him to stop them before they could escape his lips. In the afterglow, he would curl an arm around her and hold her, but his hands were never idle: playing with her curls, stroking her sweat-dampened skin, rubbing a muscle she overstretched and pulled, caressing the scattering of scales at the small of her back. Crowley would cling to him, pressing every part of her to him that she could. Her face she would bury in his chest, neck, or side, inhaling his scent.

It is at those times that they both know it is love—the kind you keep secret from the world, private and precious like nothing else in their lives.

The first time he voices it was after he had again found another piece of irrefutable evidence that she had good in her yet, as he later refers to it.

To be honest, it is just another day, one crisp January afternoon when they are returning from the park, strolling arm in arm across a bridge, looking out over the Thames.

Across the bridge, a mother and her young child are walking, the small girl skipping and playing as they go. She hops onto a bench and leans over the small stone wall to stare down at the water below.

Considering that it is January after all and easily below freezing, it seems obvious that there would be patches and pockets of ice. What’s less obvious is the small spot of ice on the bench seat, where the girl’s foot catches. One moment the girl was craning to look below and the next she was falling over, toward the icy water.

Though both angel and demon see the situation first, Crowley is quicker.

Before the girl is completely on the other side of the barrier, Aziraphale senses his companion, now invisible and hovering, catching the girl, who has one small, fragile hand catching the rail. The child can’t be but ten and should not have the strength to hang on, but Crowley silently, unnoticeably, has her arms around the girl, lifting most of her weight.

Bystanders are quick to react to the girl and her mother’s screams, and the child is pulled back over the rail quickly. Crowley is back at his side before anyone has the chance to realize she momentarily flickered from view.

And the angel can only stare at her.

She fidgets for a moment under his intense gaze before finally asking, “What?”

There’s a defensive edge to her tone and Aziraphale is quick to calm her. “You continue to astound me, my dear.”

“She’d not have survived that impact,” Crowley sniffs primly, tucking an errant curl behind her ear, studying her shoes intently. “And that’d simply be another soul for upstairs.”

His hand goes to her face and gently cups her cheek, sharp cheekbone to pointed chin. “I love you,” he whispers softly as he stares in awe.

Crowley’s amber eyes fly up to meet his own in surprise, but she pauses to glance around her. “Home,” she prompts and tucks her arm into his elbow.

With a flicker of a thought on his part, they are once more in the bookshop. Immediately thereafter, he pulls her to him, arms tight about her, and kisses her deeply.

Despite the surprise, she kisses back eagerly, and twines her tongue with his.

After several minutes of this, he pulls away to stare at Crowley. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips red, her breast heaving, her eyes alight. To Aziraphale, she’s never been so beautiful and he has never been this happy before in his existence.

“I love you,” he says again, lips against her cheek. “I told you, I knew—I knew there was goodness in here..” He taps her chest above her heart.

Crowley merely wraps herself around him again, like the serpent she was, and whispers, “Take me to bed, my angel.”

Before either can blink, they tumble into their bed, still kissing. Pressed into the mattress by the angel, Crowley breaks the kiss to whisper, “Say it again, Zira—again, please—”

“I love you,” he repeats and kisses the corner of her mouth. “I love you,” Another kiss to her jaw line. “I love you.”

The mantra continues as he kisses his way across her face, as they lose themselves in each other. When Crowley’s release finally arrives, she comes with not a sound. Aziraphale follows, breaks the chant, and screams her name.

“Thank you,” she murmurs into his chest afterward.

The angel kisses her again for good measure. “Twas nothing, love.”

And Crowley, in that perfect moment, understands what whole and all-encompassing happiness feels like.

* * *

In the morning, they curl against each other in the light from dawn that filters in through the window.

“You shouldn’t, you know,” she murmurs into his collarbone.

“Shouldn’t what?”

“Love me.”

“But I do.”

Crowley sighs and sits up, naked in both body and expression. “Zira…I’m a demon. You know this. What do you think the Host will do to you if they find out about, well…any of this? They will smite you—they’ll rip your Grace from you, they’ll make you fall—”

“My dear, they already know I stood with you against the apocalypse a year ago,” he replies softly.

“That turned out alright. This—this is different. Consorting with a demon—sleeping with a demon— _loving_ a demon…they’d kill you for associating with me, nevermind all that! Zira, I’m evil, as far as they know, I’m using you and corrupting you for my own schemes.”

Aziraphale pauses and murmurs, “There’s good in you, my dear. So much good hiding under your façade of flippant apathy and haughty derision. It’s why you fought the apocalypse with me and it’s why you saved that little girl. _I told you_.”

“Well,  _good for you_ ,” she mutters sharply, childishly. “What do you want, a pie?”

He sits up, smiling, and presses a kiss to her shoulder. “You’re not evil, Crowley.”

She snorts. "What is good? What is evil? It's all just labels and words. And _don't_   tell me that being on the side of the angels is equivalent to good. I'm not an angel anymore."

"You're on the side of the angels," Aziraphale comments softly.

Again, she snorts. "No, I'm on the side of _my_   angel. There is a difference."

He kisses her gently, soothingly, as he rubs her shoulder. “It’ll be okay. They haven’t been concerned with me at all, even since our fighting the apocalypse. They’ll never know. And even if they do find out, I can convince them. I’m a good influence on you, turning you good—you did save that girl, it’s not unbelievable. They’ll fall for it—thinking _I’m_ corrupting your ‘badness’ into goodness.”

After a moment, she grins at him wryly. “You always were the only one who could ever tempt the Temptress successfully.”

“You’re rubbing off on me, I think.”

Her grin widens. “Well, since you mention it,” she murmurs as she grinds her hips to his, startling a gasp from him.

* * *

They are happy.

Despite their conflicting natures and affiliations, they are happy together. Despite all that they have faced, despite all they could face.

It only lasts so long.

* * *

The new millennium arrives and they celebrate it on New Year’s Eve like so many other people on earth around them. They smile, remembering all the millennia before.

A couple years later, there’s a dramatic increase in celestial and occult activity. Most of it is across the pond, but there’s enough nearby for them to worry. Aziraphale is less concerned than he should be, if you ask Crowley.

“Oh, my dear, really,” he sighs when she brings it up. “They haven’t even contacted me since the attempt at the apocalypse. I doubt we are a concern at the moment.”

“To them, we’re traitors, Zira. For the apocalypse _and_ especially if they learn of our relationship. Heaven doesn’t forget, and neither does Hell,” she replies grimly. “They’ll wait, for how long I do not know, but we should take this as a warning and take some precautions!”

Eventually, he acquiesces, agreeing to humor her.

She doesn’t tell him that Hell has been attempting to contact her quite a bit, worryingly so, and she’s especially anxious as it is never a pleasant summons, and certainly not when she refuses to acknowledge or respond to them.

So she plans out a system of Enochian wards and symbols, meant to protect her and Zira but repel any other angel, demon, or supernatural being. When Zira realizes how extensive lengths she’s going to, he insists she stay with him above the bookshop to save some trouble. It doesn’t take much convincing on his part and she doesn’t really mind. She can better look after him here.

Around nine in the evening, Crowley is in the process of putting up the wards inside the shop when she runs out of paint.

“Damn,” she mutters.

“Hmm?” Zira looks up from the manuscript he was examining. “Sorry?”

She sighs and stands up. “Ran out of paint. Going to run to the shop to buy more, angel,” she tells him and presses a quick, gentle kiss to his lips.

Aziraphale smiles. “Be careful, my dear. Love you.”

Despite the time since the initial confessions, a smile wanders onto her lips as well. “I’ll be back in a few, darling.”

She isn’t.

* * *

Only two streets away from the shop—that’s how far away she is when she’s shoved into a side alley.

“Hassstur!” she hisses.

He grins viciously. “’Lo Crowley.” She doesn’t wait for anything else and punches the other Fallen in the face.

Hands suddenly grab her arms, pulling her back and down. Glancing over her shoulders reveals several lower-tier demons, useless little cannon fodder. She rips out of their grasp and snatches a knife from her pocket and kills three before she’s pinned against a wall. Her head bounces from the force of it and her vision blurs for a moment before she can discern Beelzebub before her, grinning as he holds her there.

“Crowley, Crowley, Crowley,” he growls with a vicious smirk and, with a twitch of his fingers, she is forced to drop the weapon.

Powerful as Crowley is, she cannot beat the Prince of Hell, Lucifer’s second in command. But.

Prince of Hell he may be, but that doesn’t mean she does not have a few tricks up her sleeve.

A mutter of an Enochian spell sends them all flying backwards into a brick wall, not dissimilar to how she’d been thrown. Crowley turns to blink away, but she isn’t quick enough: a pair of arms encircle her from behind and she freezes when a cold angel blade comes to rest lightly at her throat.

She closes her eyes in defeat.

“Well, our dear, rouge Crowley,” Beelzebub coos into her ear. “Where _have_ you been?”

“Oh, around, keeping busy, you know,” she replies lightly, and the blade presses more against her skin in warning.

He hummed. “Busy enough that you can’t answer our summons and orders?”

“Tight schedule.”

“For more than ten years?”

“Like I said, busy, busy.”

His grip tightens on her before he snaps to his underlings, “Grab her and _don’t_ let her escape.” Hands clamp onto her arms and shoulders and the angel blade vanishes.

“Oh, going somewhere are we?” she asks curiously, trying not to tremble in their grasp.

The Prince of Hell snorts. “Did you think you could just ignore us and we’d go away? Especially after your… _display_   fighting to stop the End of Times? With an _angel_   no less?!” He cackles. “Oh, Crowley. I thought you were smarter than that.”

Her heart sinks and her only hope is that they don’t think to go after Zira too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Manipulation, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Graphic Depictions of Torture, (Semi) Graphic Depictions of Rape, Aftermath of Torture and Violence.
> 
> It's a rough chapter, guys. Fair warning.

Once in Hell, they take her to a demon.

Not a demon. _The_ demon. The first. (As if that was supposed to impress Crowley.)

Lilith is terrifying in her legend and power and influence—ruthless and so utterly loyal to Lucifer. Crowley doesn’t trust her for a moment.

Nevermind that she’s never met Lilith before. The demon had still been imprisoned last time she’d been downstairs.

“And where have _you_ been?” she asks in a sugary voice that makes the Temptress nauseous.

Crowley shrugs. “Oh, you know. Tempting stupid souls. Corrupting the holy. Causing general sin and chaos. The family business.”

Lilith hums. “Of course you were. And just what did you think you were doing, years ago, when our associates attempted to raise our king and father, to bring about the end of times?”

The words slide from her tongue with oiled ease. “He can’t be released without you—and you weren’t there, so of course it wouldn’t succeed. I convinced some stupid angel I was against ending it all and got him to help. Can you believe that?” Crowley sneers. “The sap actually rebelled against the ineffable, divine plan with a _demon_! I count that as a success. He still considers me a friend to this day, the fool.”

“Oh really?” Lilith purrs, stepping closer to study Crowley. “You just… _knew_ it would fail?”

She snorts. “Lilith, I know how it works. I know the plan for it all— _fuck_ , I’ve known longer than you’ve been around. Lucifer’s release, of course I make it my business to know all of the Seals and the proper order of the process.”

“Say I believe you, that you were conning an angel the whole time,” Lilith murmurs. “Why haven’t you answered your summons since?”

Crowley’s lips thin. “I’m a busy, busy demon, Lilith, living in one of the busiest, most populated cities in the world. You think I’m not going to be busy?”

The first demon outright glares. “Remember to whom you speak, demon. I don’t like your non-answers…” she pauses and her eyes slide to Beelzebub. “Take her to Alastair. Maybe he can get more out of her, and teach her respect.”

Beezebub nods, grinning eagerly, and her captors take her to the torture chambers and strap her onto a rack.

She bears it with a calm expression, knowing full well she has no chance of escape, and knowing her energy is better spent preparing herself.

“Weeeeell,” Alastair murmurs as he studies his new victim on display for him. “Crowley, been a while.”

“Has it?” she replies. “Not long enough, apparently.”

He chuckles. “Still the smug little cunt you always were. Hmm, you know, I’ve never had one of the Fallen on my racks before. I think I’m going to enjoy this experiment.”

Her screams follow seconds after.

* * *

 It doesn’t take long for Aziraphale to realize his demon was gone.

Gone, gone.

 _Taken_ gone.

His immediate thought is Heaven but a brief, thorough sojourn reveals nothing. And something goes cold in his chest as he realizes she’s been taken to Hell.

Beyond his reach.

* * *

Days pass. Months. Years.

Time is different in Hell; Crowley feels every second.

Alastair is Hell’s Grand Torturer. He loves experimenting on new souls, finding all the specific weaknesses of each; it’s an art.

A fallen angel is different from a human soul. Or a normal demon for that matter.

She’s got strengths of both, she knows that very well. Alastair loves learning what weaknesses she’s got.

Angel blade is his favorite, it burns at her Grace as he carves into her flesh. Angel blade dipped in salt and holy water, depending on his mood.

Holy fire scorches her. Salt makes frequent appearances as well—being stuffed and poured down her throat, shoved into gaping lacerations, sewn up in pockets inside wounds. Holy water burns as it is poured down her throat or washes the salt away.

Some days he decides upon a rarer, more personal approach from himself. As a succubus and The Temptress, sex is something she enjoys and uses often. Not with Alastair. He forces himself upon her, forces her body to yield under his, to give him pleasure, to humiliate her.

Others join in at times, hordes of his minions forcing themselves upon her, even more watching and jeering, using every orifice, any and everything they can possibly do. That gets boring after a while. So he uses blades instead.

The thought of Zira is the only thing she can hold on to. She thinks of kissing him and sleeping with him and sleeping next to him and fighting the apocalypse with him. She thinks of dinners at the Ritz and walks to the duck pond and bothering him at the bookstore and helping him with crosswords in the morning and making tea to share. She thinks of loving him. She thinks of that last kiss. She holds on to it.

He does not learn anything about Zira. Not from Crowley.

* * *

After his search comes up with nothing, he instead starts asking questions. It confuses the other angels, who do not acknowledge his absence, but they proverbially shrug and simply inform him what they know. He learns that, yes, the Heavenly Host knew of her disappearance, no, they did not cause it.

He searches for weeks, torturous weeks, because he knows how long she’s been in Hell, how long that equates to, likely spent suffering. He calls in every favor, pulls every string, follows every lead, asks every friend.

He finds nothing.

It breaks his heart.

* * *

 After some months of learning nothing, Alistair loses interest in her and assigns others to torture her. There are demons-in-the-making, souls fresh off the rack themselves, as her tormenters. As if they can phase her. This is nothing.

They come and go, and it’s interesting to see different stages in the demonizing process, if nothing else. It gives her something to think about and focus on other than pain.

She retreats into her mind when it’s too much. She goes to a happy place there in her memories—of long afternoons spent at the bookshop, rainy nights curled under the covers in bed, dining at the Ritz, finding old manuscripts for her angel, feeding the ducks at St. James Park, kissing her angel…Zira. She thinks of Zira.

That’s all Crowley can hold on to.

* * *

He contacts Adam the Antichrist, now a young man in his twenties and a friend still. Upon hearing his ‘Godmother’ has been taken, he offers his help and searches too.

Eventually he begins helping others to curry debts in others to get help looking for Crowley. It’s more helpful than he had hoped it would be.

A garrison captain named Castiel, an old friend, asks one day for his assistance with a mission, and Aziraphale can’t agree quick enough.

An attack upon Hell. They’re to rescue a righteous soul from Hell, to fight to give Castiel time to find and rescue the soul.

It will take years fighting to enter Hell and to reach that inner plain where torture occurs. Long, long years of constant fighting and battle to gain ground. A dangerous mission that will cost the lives of angels, but the righteous man _must_ be saved. But…

Hell. They’re going to Hell. He does not even consider that his plans could be traitorous or rebellious. They have Crowley in Hell—they must. She can’t be… No, she must be there. He will find her. He must.

 _Hold on_.

* * *

 The newest little torturer is a little soul fresh from his own torments and dead in the eyes. Cold and methodical in his preparation and execution of pain. He’s good. He’s already shut down inside to survive. She can see the cracks where he’s breaking. It's a shame. She can still see the shine of his bright, good soul underneath the grit of hell. 

Alastair interrupts one of their sessions to get his help with a new, brilliant epiphany he had for their imprisoned fallen angel.

It breaks her.

* * *

It takes years to gain ground, but as they fight on and make progress, Aziraphale can feel a whisper of her presence, barely detectable, but after centuries with her, he can find her. He will always find her.

He locks on to that faint signal, that dim spotlight so far away, and hears her screams, her wails, her cries.

* * *

Crowley is no longer conscious.

She passed out long ago, withdrawn to some deep corner of her own mind for her own protection.

Nothing can reach her here. She is safe.

She is alone.

* * *

The moment Aziraphale sees her, he splits away from the garrison he has accompanied without thought and goes to her side.

Demons and demons-in-the-making and tortured souls are everywhere amongst the countless weapons and instruments of torture. He kills nine before he's even broken one of the chains holding her.

It isn't good. Aziraphale thinks her conscious at first, as her eyes are open, but soon realizes she is incognizant, awake but unaware. Catatonic.

Her clothes are long gone but it doesn't really matter because all he can see are the injuries.

This is Hell. The tortures here are not hampered by death. They are already dead, mostly. But Crowley is an angel, an angel with her own body, and she cannot die here either.

She's been split open from sternum to pelvis, skin torn back to show her soft inner flesh. He can see where ribs have been ripped out or broken from the inside. Organs are hardly distinguishable, all mixed together in a bloody pulp within her abdomen.

He recognizes the damage from pure holy water and salt, from burning holy oil, from an angelic blade.

There are burns covering the remains of her skin. He sees gaping wounds and bloody messes that he realizes were muscle. So much of her skin is gone, peeled and sliced away to reveal the vulnerable muscle and bone underneath. Her shoulders and the area around her collarbones are in such a state; below that, her chest is a wreck of carved flesh.

Her long delicate fingers are a mess of bone splinters, shreds of muscle, and peels of skin. Her feet are in a similar way.

Aziraphale can't bring himself to dare look at her lower regions at all, for fear of what he will find. He feels sick enough as it is.

The worst damage is the last thing he sees.

There on her back, where her beautiful, beloved wings once were, are only bloody stumps, the bones protruding grotesquely. A few stray downy feathers are stuck in the tacky blood drying on her back.

And so he destroys the Enochian sigils and the chains that bind her. Aziraphale cradles her insensate body to his chest as gently and carefully as he can. His finest manuscripts never knew this care.

He fights his way back out viciously, smiting any demon who dares attempt to get in his way. The journey out is long and laborious, though not nearly as much as the trek there.

Aziraphale pays no mind to the other angels he leaves, still fighting for their prize. He does not care. His only concern is for the being in his arms.

When he finally gets to the flat above the shop, he lays her on the bed and begins fetching water and bandages and herbs and medicine and anything that he thinks might help. He sends a quick message to Adam, an urgent plea for help.

As an angel, reasonably high in the celestial hierarchy, he has many powers. Blessings and miracles are a large part of it. Healing is another, a skill he had picked up and been tutored in by one of his brothers or sisters very long, long ago—so long, he's completely forgotten who was his teacher.

Crowley is not mortal. She is a—was a celestial being—now made demonic. She has strengths of both and vulnerabilities of both. While a good deal of lethal weapons against demons cannot kill her, they still inflict immense pain. An angel should die if they come into direct contact with fire started with holy oil; Crowley did not. An angel should die when cut by an angelic blade, much less carved and sliced to pieces; Crowley did not. Partially due to her dual nature, but mostly to the skill of her tormentor.

It makes Aziraphale want to find his flaming sword and return the favor forty times over.

He does not.  He cannot.  He sits and heals and blesses and prays and doctors his demon. His powers should not work on a demon but he forces it to take. He thinks of every glimpse of goodness in her that he's ever seen—of Crowley at his side wielding nothing but a tire iron as they prepared to face down the Adversary—of her pleas for him to never consider anything of her worth the risk of him Falling—of the trembling emotion on her face when he said he loved her (like she couldn't believe it, like it was a miracle)—of her saving that child—of every act of kindness or compassion she had ever done, no matter the excuse she gave.

He uses more of his power now than ever in the past, as he mends her broken, mutilated body and pieces her back together through a series of miracles and blessings. He washes the salt and holy water from her wounds and scrubs away dried blood.

Any other injury he could heal instantly but this—this is Hell's work, this is Hell's grand torturer's work, this is not a normal body or normal wounds. Her bones are shattered, her skin is shredded, her organs are rent, her flesh is carved, her wings are—

A sob tears through his throat as he looks upon her back. Her wings are—they're _gone_. Completely. And he can't—Aziraphale cannot regrow them. Her wings, like his, are corporeal manifestations of her Grace. By cutting ( _ripping_ , his mind supplies, _hacking, tearing, carving_ ) her wings off, they've mangled her Grace, her very essence of being.

Only big, ugly stumps remain, each as big as his hand. He can see where feathers were ripped off the thin skin there. The delicate bones protrude, broken-off and jutting out sharply.

She had taken such considerable care with them, grooming and preening them zealously; they'd been the deepest shade of black he'd ever seen, the darkest of shadows, shining and lovely too. Aziraphale had admired them and she had treasured them.

Of all the things they might have done to her, this was the worst. Bodies could healed, trauma could be overcome, but her wings were a part of her Grace…and now they were gone. This would devastate her entirely.

And he could not do anything to alleviate her suffering. Aziraphale bows his head and weeps, knowing the pain he would soon bear witness to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I'm playing the how-many-Supernatural-references-can-I-possibly-make game...before we even really get into Supernatural.  
> ...what can I say, it's fun. Which is sorely needed in dark stories like this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Aftermath of Violence and Torture, Severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Panic Attacks
> 
> May be triggering in regards to mental health.
> 
>  
> 
> ...If you're interesting in listening to a song while reading, I recommend "Timshel" by Mumford and Sons. That's what helped me write this.

Days pass.

Slowly with his coaxing, her skin begins to regrow. Her organs begin to mend and right themselves. Her bones fit together like a jigsaw puzzle and unify into a solid shape again. Her body begins to reshape into something recognizable.

Of all her body, her head is all but untouched. They wanted her cognizant. They wanted her able to talk. But…

More days pass.

She does not stir.

* * *

 Until she does, three weeks after his retrieval of her.

A whimper is the first sign of life, and before long she's squirming. He goes to her side to calm her movement, to prevent her from further injury.

The moment his fingers touch her skin, she jerks away and shrinks into the blankets with a whimper.

"Crowley, my love," he murmurs. "Please stop—"

Her eyes shoot open, wide with terror. " _Nooo_ ," she moans at the sight of him. "Stop it Alastair, stop it. I know he's not here. Don’t bother pretending—"

“It’s me,” he replies. “Crowley, it is _me_. Not Alastair.” She flinches at his words, but he presses on. “I’ll prove it. Ask me anything. Your favorite color is dark blue, like the night sky. Your favorite time of day is twilight so you can watch the stars appear. You like earl grey tea with two sugars and lemon. You love the Harry Potter books and claim to be a Slytherin, though I always tell you that you're more a Gryffindor. You have good in you like I always say and you're worth Falling and I love you.”

She stares and stares but slowly the hysteric fear drains from her eyes and recognition takes its place. “Angel…” she slurs before collapsing back into the comforter, having passed out. As Aziraphale tends to and checks her injuries, tears slip down his pale cheeks.

She is all but shattered, but they had not broken her.

* * *

 Adam returns shortly thereafter and heals what he can, but not even his vast Antichrist powers can restore her grace nor her wings.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more,” he tells his angelic godfather in a hushed tone.

“No, my boy,” Aziraphale pats his shoulder. “You’ve done all you could. That’s all I can ask for. Thank you.”

The Antichrist nods grimly and hesitates. “Would it…would it be alright if I drop by again sometime soon? To visit you both?”

“Of course!” Aziraphale replies quietly with a small smile. “You’re welcome anytime. You and those friends of yours.”

“I might bring Them with me. If nothing else, they’ll probably send cards or letters with me if nothing else. Same for Anathema and Newt. I’ll ask them all though.”

The angel nods wearily. “Thank you, m’boy. For all your help.”

“Anytime,” the Antichrist replies. He means it.

* * *

 Some hours later, Aziraphale is reading by her bedside, or trying to. He can’t really focus on the Latin on the page.

Crowley shifts under the blankets and his attention is upon her instantly. After a moment, her eyes open, clear and aware to his relief.

“Zira…” she croaks.

He smiles. “Hello, my dear.”

The demon stares at him in awe and reaches out a weak hand for him, which he grasps quickly, stroking her pale skin comfortingly. “Angel, how did you…how are…” she swallows. “Explain.”

He does.

“How much damage was done, Zira?” she asks softly. “After a while I…I lost track and withdrew into my mind. It's, well. I’m still a bit…foggy now.”

The angel wets his lips. “My dear…You were…I can’t—” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to find the words. “I healed you as best as I could, and Adam stopped by earlier to help. But…” His voice breaks.

“Zira,” she looks to him in confused concern. “What? Tell me, please.”

“They…they cut off your wings, Crowley,” he whispers.

Her face drops into horrified devastation, made worse as she feels the scar of their absence. He pulls her into his arms as she crumples. Both are in tears as she buries her face in his chest, sobbing. After a time, he ends up in bed with her, holding her as she clutches to him.

There they remain, clinging to each other, mourning for the pain and loss she felt.

* * *

Much later, she eventually inquires how he rescued her, how he found her, how he got her out. He explains as best as he can, avoiding mentions of how frantic and reckless he was, how much he disregarded his safety and wellbeing to look for her, but she sees it.

“You shouldn’t have neglected yourself so, angel,” she murmurs to him. “I can see the new paleness in your face, the sleepless nights under your eyes, the lack of care for your body in the edge of your ribs that I can see.”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything were to happen to you because I wasted my time.”

The thought makes her tremble as she tightens her arms about him. “If something like this ever happens again—you have to promise me, swear to me that you won’t neglect yourself so. I can’t possibly expect to give up looking for me, but…don’t kill yourself doing so. Life without you would only lead to suicide. I only ask that…if I ever vanish again, if you can’t find any leads…don’t cling to hope that I’m alive. Move on. Try to live without me.”

His expression is pained. “I…Crowley, my dear…I cannot…”

“You must,” she insists. “I want your oath. A blood oath.”

After a long moment of pained consideration, he nods. “Only if you agree to the same.”

She does, but she never expects to be held to it.

* * *

 For many days, she remains in their bed, unwilling to face the world beyond their bedroom. Azirphale is loath to leave her for anything, whether it be to fetch food or tea or books or blankets.

One night, she wakes him sometime near three. After he shakes off the haze of sleep and places his glasses upon his face, he takes in her pale features, the trembling of her body, the tears down her face.

"Zira— _sorry_ —" she gasps, breathing quick and uncontrolled.

He hesitates. "Contact, good or bad?" he asks and she jerks her head in a rough nod, so he wraps his arms about her carefully—firmly, enough so she knows he's there—but not enough to make her feel trapped. The last time she'd had a panic attack, contact was bad and she'd crawled away to lean against the headboard, several feet away from him, needing the space. This time, she craved the comfort touch brought.

"—didn't want to—wake—you but—" Crowley gets out inbetween sobbing gasps, " _Ca_ _n't_ —need— _breathing_ —"

The angel rubs his hands up and down her back and arms slowly. "Breathe, dear. Breathe. Just breathe—with me, yes? Nice and slow." For several long minutes, they focus on the deep breaths, interrupted by the soft hiccups in the aftermath of her sobs. "Just like that, Crowley, yes. I'm here, I'm with you—you're not alone."

Her hand clenches in the fabric of her shirt over her chest. "Zira, I c-can't—my heart, it's—"

"I know," he murmurs. "I know it hurts. You're not dying, I promise, my dear. You're not dying and you're not crazy. Everything will be alright. Keep breathing."

She presses her sweaty forehead to his shoulder. "Sorry, didn't want to—to wake you up, but—" **  
**

Aziraphale presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "It's alright, you know I don't mind. I'd rather you not deal with this alone. Did you have another dream?"

Slowly, her breathing has begun to relax and deepen, her shaking beginning to steady. "I-I did, yes," she agrees softly. 

It's the sixth time that she's had to wake him because she was suffering a panic attack. The first time had been terrifying for both, but they had slowly learned what helped best. She hates to bother him, afraid to irritate him, afraid of judgment, afraid that he'll eventually snap and tell her to get over it. Aziraphale, however, does none of these things. Instead, he does his best to help her calm down and offer comfort.

It isn't easy, but they manage. 

After half an hour, she presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. "I think I can go back to sleep now, angel," she admits.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offers, as he always does. 

Crowley thinks of the dream— _the memories of Alastair cutting away at her wings, plucking feathers, mutilating organs_ —and shakes her head, shaking away the thoughts. "No, not tonight. Just, just hold me, please."

"Of course." They lay down again in bed, wrapped up in each other, and return to sleep. This time, it's dreamless.

* * *

Time can’t heal this wound, but it does scab over and scar. It’s no longer fresh, though she still feels her wings’ absence constantly.

They recover, cling to each other, and slowly heal the hidden scars caused by their separation.

* * *

It takes time for their life to return to something even vaguely similar to ‘normal’.

They are visited by Adam and his friends and Anathema and Newt, the closest things to friends that they have. It’s heartwarming, to see them again after so long, all so concerned for Crowley, who actually greets them fondly, if tiredly. Their visitors bring with them desserts and cooked dinners and cards and flowers. It’s a lovely, unexpected gesture, and it actually brings a smile to the demon’s lips.

Crowley slowly begins to smile regularly, to emerge from the bedroom more than once a week, to dress and later leave the building. Despite her trauma, she never flinches from Aziraphale. In fact, she seems to reach out to him more, seeking contact and comfort even more, not that the angel minds at all.

He’s reluctant to participate in more…amorous activities, but she promises she’s alright and that she will tell him if that changes. It doesn’t and their activities, if anything, seem to make Crowley more herself, more assured that life is returning to normal, more secure that she really has been saved and that this isn’t a dream.

Somehow, they move on, scarred, but alive and living. Which are, of course, two very different things. They manage both.

* * *

They're walking to their duck pond one day when they stop at a tea shop on the way to grab some warm beverages, as while it’s not very cold out, the biting wind makes it chilly.

While it doesn't both Aziraphale much, Crowley loathes the cold and has bundled up carefully with a lavishly warm coat. Still, she shivers whenever a strong gust manages to pierce her coat.

When he suggests stopping to grab some tea to go, he knows it will help her keep warm and how much she'll appreciate it. They order and wait patiently in the nearly empty shop at a table for their tea. When the woman brings their teas, Crowley accepts both styrofoam cups with a polite murmur of thanks. The woman smiles and winks. "Have a nice day with your handsome young man, dearie!"

Both Zira and the demon flush pink as they chuckle to themselves.

"Ready to go?" He asks with a smile.

"To walk with my handsome young man?" She laughs quietly. "Of course."

They walk, with her hand tucked into his elbow neatly, brushing against each other as they go.

When they reach their bench, she sits closer than usual, using him to help block the wind and to steal body heat. He grins and wraps an arm about her to help.

Neither speak for quite a while, enjoying the fresh air and familiar sights of the park. Her eyes catch the joggers and couples and parents and children filling the park, until she sees a young twenty-something couple playing with a toddler nearby.

"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like?" She asks softly.

"Hmm?" He breaths into her hair, a wordless question.

Crowley explains softly, "Being human. Having a mortal life like that. Childhood, adolescence, adulthood, marriage, children, death? All of that?"

The angel considers it. "Not often. There's little point, really, in wondering what it'd be like for us, but…sometimes I wonder what humanity is like, yes. How it feels to not know how long you have left with your loved ones, not knowing what your purpose is…"

"Or having the will to choose your purpose," she replies softly, regretfully. "What it must be like… We could do anything we wanted. Go to university, get real jobs, travel how one should—experience life as it was meant to be lived. We could do anything—anything at all."

She pauses as the toddler laughs loudly, joyously, and the parent smile on, blissful and proud and content with their silly little pointless lives. "We could even have a family," she murmurs softly.

He grabs her hand and intertwines their fingers comfortingly. "Do you…do you want a family? Or children, my dear?"

She hesitates, unsure; the idea is a completely foreign concept to her. "I think…I would like to have the choice." The fallen angel cannot imagine being a mother at all— _children_. Good God. How…terrifying. That was discounting the fact that any children of theirs would be nephilim—abominations, according to Heaven, dangerous, to be destroyed upon creation. Forbidden…But…her words are true. The choice, the option, the freedom…would be appreciated.

She sighs thoughtfully. "Have you ever…ah, considered…becoming human?"

He stills and adjusts his glasses thoughtfully. "I…not really. Perhaps we miss out on some things but…they do too. And were we not as we are, I'd…well. Who knows if we'd ever know each other as humans. This life has given me six thousand years and I've spent so many of them with you. I can't regret that, my dear."

Crowley glances up at him, startled, and smiles. "I agree." She pauses and laughs. "God, when did we become such saps?"

His laugh warms her more than any tea ever could.

* * *

 Slowly, Crowley returns to her old self, but Aziraphale can see the still-bleeding wounds and not-quite-scars, no matter how hard she works to hide them from him.

There are nights she cannot sleep at all, for fear of dreaming. When she actually manages to sleep, he often wakes to find her curled up in a protective ball, trembling—or screaming in her sleep—or sobbing out in agony and terror. Too often does this happen.

Most of her days are spent with him in the bookshop, no longer out tempting or seducing or anything of the kind. Instead, she settles near the counter, near him, with some novel to distract her while he either reorganizes, repairs books, cleans, or scares off customers. He often looks up from his work to check on her. Usually, she is engrossed in her novel, or busy writing, or using the computer, or listening to some music—but there are times when he finds her pale and staring into space, mind wandering back to Hell. The angel can usually pull her from those dark thoughts with a gentle hand on the shoulder, which makes her shiver as she shakes off the unwelcome, lingering ghosts.

It isn’t much that he can do for her, but he tries.

He _knows_ there are some wounds that can only heal with time, but also that there are some beyond time’s capacity for healing, too deep and scarred to ever return to their previous condition. He knows this, has to remind himself that he can't just fix this for her. That he can't just fix her.

But he doesn’t allow her to drift into those dark memories often, keeps her company to distract her and keep her focused on happier thoughts—whether that means getting her assistance to scare off persistent customers, dining at the Ritz, feeding the ducks, singing Queen, or more carnal distractions.

Aziraphale does what he can, not that he minds much. He enjoys the increase of time spent with his dear beloved, and slowly…slowly, he finds that the ghosts are weakening their hold on her, though he isn’t sure if they will ever be properly exorcised.

He does know, however, that Crowley is stronger than them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to the panic attack contained in this chapter, I really hope it wasn't triggering to anyone. I have severe depression and anxiety, and have suffered countless panic attacks. My roommate also suffers from anxiety and panic attacks. This chapter reflects my personal experiences with them, so it may or may not hold true for others.
> 
> Should you, dear reader, ever find yourself helping someone during a panic attack, my advice is thus: be patient, be kind, remind them to breathe, don't be offended if they don't want to be touched, ask how you can help (hugging, walking, relocating, turning on/off lights, getting blankets, offering water or tea, etc). Each person and each panic attack is somewhat different, and no two people react the same. 
> 
> Again, this was written with my personal experiences in mind, so if you have any thoughts or questions, they're welcome.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a lighter chapter. Comparatively, speaking.
> 
> Recommended listening: "Move Along", All-American Rejects

The rain pounds upon the store-front windows, the wind rattling the door at times, and lightning flashing every few minutes. It’s been storming like this for two days. While Crowley has nothing against rain or a refreshing thunderstorm, it makes leaving the building problematic. (She’s just grateful they don’t have to commute to get home.) While they are safe to remain in the shop and their flat all day, it also meant they could not easily go to the Ritz or the park.

At this point, it’s kind of just getting ridiculous, even if Zira is glad that the weather has scared off visitors.

And so that dark afternoon finds Aziraphale carefully cleaning up an old manuscript’s cover while the demon softly plays some classic rock on the radio while she reads aloud the most recent Harry Potter novel.

In the middle of a discussion about the greasy git Snape and the little ferret Malfoy, the door flies open as a man rushes in, utterly soaked.

“Oh my!” Zira exclaims, startled. “Are you alright, sir?”

The man chuckles. “A bit wet, but that’s no issue. I just had some trouble getting in.”

Crowley eyes him in surprise. _American_.

“Ah, yes the wind is rather terrible, too,” the angel replies, eyeing the windows.

Their visitor raises an eyebrow slowly. “And here I thought it had more to do with the complex Enochian wards guarding this place.”

Instantly, Crowley darts across the store to stand in front of Aziraphale protectively, her angel blade drawn and raised. “How did you get passed them?” she snarls, face pale. 

The man—well, man-shaped being—pauses. Curious, but not threatened or intimidated in the least. “Huh. A demon guard dog. Didn’t expect that…unless…she’s, what, either a captor or prisoner?”

“What?!” Aziraphale sputters, offended. “She—she’s nothing of the sort! What do you want of us?”

“Oh, come on, Azzie—is that any way to treat an estranged brother?”

Crowley’s lip curls. “Family doesn’t mean much, not when most of them want to kill us. Who _are_ you?” she spits.

He laughs. “Protective little thing, very odd. I mean, I know I’ve been away for a while, but I’m pretty sure angels and demons shouldn’t be shacking up together.” He grins. “What, don’t you recognize me? Well, I suppose that’s the Trickster in me throwing you off…”

“ _A name_ ,” the demon snarls as she steps forward and presses the tip of the angel blade to his throat.

“Gabriel, _duh_.” He rolls his eyes. “Here, check if you don’t believe me.”

For a moment, they can feel his Grace filling the shop—indeed, Gabriel the Messenger stands before them. Crowley stumbles back into Aziraphale in surprise.

Aziraphale, in turn, steps in front of Crowley, blocking the archangel’s view of her as much as he can, being shorter than her presently. “Gabriel—how? I thought you were…Where have you been?”

“In hiding,” he shrugs. “I went native with the Norse gods, became a trickster—you remember, Azzie. I ran away because I didn’t want to watch my older bros kill each other. I heard over angel radio you helped prevent an attempt at the apocalypse a few years ago and I thought it’d be prudent of me to find you and talk about recent events with you…though I _hadn’t_ heard anything about you associating with a demon.”

The archangel eyes her carefully, as if trying to determine the right angle to attack from, and Aziraphale draws himself straighter, even as Crowley lays a hand on his shoulder. “You will not harm her, Gabriel.”

“Won’t I?” he wonders curiously. “Interesting. Last I heard, demons weren’t our allies.”

“Neither are Norse gods, Gabriel. Forgive me but I shan’t allow it,” Aziraphale replies firmly. “She is not to be harmed, especially if you are here on friendly terms.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows raise again. “Well, I came on friendly terms with you.”

“You _won’t_   touch her,” the other maintains.

She grasps his right hand from behind him. “Zira,” she murmurs into his ear. “He’s one of the most powerful beings in all of Creation…it wouldn’t do to anger or oppose him. He could take us out without batting an eye. Darling, I can fight my own battles, don’t endanger yourself.”

Surprised, Gabriel studies them curiously, interested because of her words. “Tell ya what. The blades go away, I don’t smite you, and you two explain how you came to be so cozy.”

* * *

 Two hours later, they are curled together on the sofa and Gabriel is sprawled in an armchair, facing them as he sips on whisky.

“Huh, well—glad I didn’t smite you on sight then, Black-Eyes,” he remarks casually.

“Yes,” she agrees dryly. “So am I. Thanks for that.”

The archangel hums, observing them thoughtfully. “You’re one of the Fallen, aren’t you, ah…Crowley, right?” She nods reluctantly. “And…weren’t you Sariel?”

She stiffens. “I was once known as such, yes.”

Gabriel sits forward. “Really? Interesting…”

“What is, Gabriel?” Aziraphale asks in confusion.

“…You really don’t remember?”

They exchange brief glances. “Um…remember what?”

“Never mind then,” he replies simply, a bit sadly, before covering it with a big smirk. “So, you’ve got a demon for a Mate, huh, Azzie?”

He squeezes Crowley’s hand. “Yes, she is. Now you understand our behavior when you announced yourself.”

“Yeah, I can’t say many of our brothers and sisters woulda listened to your history. Glad I did, I suppose.”

Zira sniffs and adjusts his glasses. “Yes, well, I must ask for your word that you’ll keep our relationship and location secret, please, Gabriel.”

“Of course,” he grins. “You have it, and I expect the same of you two. Don’t exactly want everyone to know I’m still up and breathing.”

Crowley snorts. “As if we’re that stupid not to expect that, Gabriel,” she replies sharply, tossing her loose curls over her shoulder.

He watches the motion, chuckles, and wiggles his eyebrows at them. “Picked a real looker, didn’t you, bro? Bet she’s a hellcat in bed.”

“ _Gabriel!_ ” Aziraphale admonishes sharply, face red. “She’s a lady.”

Crowley laughs despite herself. “It’s alright, Zira. And if you must know, Gabe…I'm a lady in the streets, as for the sheets, well…” She smirks. “Not exactly. I’m known as the Temptress, if that helps.”

It makes the brunette angel bust into laughter, even as the other flushes brighter. “Well, I never pegged you as the _femme fatale_ type, but you hooked yourself quite a little vixen, Az. I approve.”

“Aren’t you a flatterer?” she laughs. “Oh, come now, Zira, there’s no need to be so embarrassed, love.”

He eyes the two of them in exasperation. “You two getting along isn’t going to be very enjoyable for me, is it?”

“I dunno, bro,” Gabriel grins. “How d’you feel about constant innuendo and sarcasm?”

Aziraphale groans half-heartedly.

* * *

 “So, have you two heard what’s up recently?”

The couple pause.

“Not really,” Crowley replies. “Although there has certainly been an increase in supernatural activity…In addition, I was kidnapped by some demons a few months ago and tortured in hell. I was greeted by the ever-so-lovely Lilith, so we can assume that another attempt at the apocalypse is in the works.”

Gabriel nods. “Bingo. Got it in one, Crowles. Lilith’s back and making a bee-line for releasing Lucifer. You heard of the Winchester boys? They’re a couple of hunters in the US. They’re the true vessels for Mikey and Lucy. In addition, the older one, Dean, broke the First Seal.”

To her left, Aziraphale inhales sharply. “The first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell,” he recites.

“Exactly,” the archangel nods. “Some angels pulled him outta Hell and he’s back with Sam, his little bro—well, not really little. Kid’s a fucking giant, like six-four of something.” He wiggles his eyebrows and smirks. “Let’s just say I’d climb him like a tree, given the chance. Then again, they’re both handsome fuckers.”

Crowley laughs, but gives him a glance for him to get back on subject, before Zira’s face is permanently stained that red. He does.

“…Anyway, now Lilith and her lot are in a mad dash to break as many seals as possible. Heaven, unfortunately, has decided it’s time for the ultimate showdown, so they aren’t doing anything to stop them. The Winchesters and their gang of hunters are doing their best to stop them, but they can only do so much.”

“The clock is ticking,” Crowley surmises. “How long does it look like we’ve got?”

“Maybe a year or two. At most. The Hardy Boys are more resourceful than Lilith thinks.”

The silence stretches thin between them, delicate and nervous, until Crowley sighs. “Well, fuck.”

Gabriel grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “If you insist, I’m game.”

The demon snorts. “Nice try. I’ll stick with Zira, though. Now if you could please refrain from the propositions. I think Zira might blow a gasket.”

“Where's the fun in that?” the archangel laughs.

Crowley rolls her eyes.

* * *

Gabriel stays for a week in their guest room. He spends most of that time discussing lore and whatnot with Aziraphale, hoping to find somewhat to set the demons back or to stop them all together. After all, their little bookshop contains some of the world’s rarest and most useful books on the supernatural and celestial.

But it’s all for naught. They can do nothing now, only hope that these Winchesters are lucky and, once Lucifer is free, both deny the archangels as long as possible.

They discuss the endgame—once Lucifer is free. “The only thing I can think of to stop the apocalypse at that point,” Gabriel says slowly, “Is to use the Horsemen’s rings to lock him back up in the Cage again.”

He helps Crowley re-ward the shop, stronger than ever, boosted by his power.

At Zira’s encouragement, she slowly, haltingly explains what happened to her wings. He examines them carefully, but regretfully apologizes as even he can’t do anything. In a moment of rare sincerity, he hugs her and ruffles her hair fondly.

The archangel thanks them for their hospitality and departs for America, to see what he could do.

Crowley and Zira are left in the shop, embracing each other in worry.

“I don’t think we can stop this one, angel,” she whispers into his neck.

He pulls her closer and presses his lips to her head. “We always manage, my dear. This time will be no different. We’ll manage.”

* * *

 They don’t.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, good ol' Gabriel.  
> And of course some nice foreboding. *wiggles eyebrows* See you next week.
> 
> Here is the introduction of the main "Supernatural" plotline.
> 
> Any questions please let me know. I know I've got a couple GO readers who haven't watched SPN, which is going to be rough from here on out. We're going to start with SPN season 4 and go with it to the end of this fic.
> 
> Also, I'm still writing this. I'm currently at 95,470 words, and still not done. :)
> 
> Hope you're enjoying it - drop a line, let me know in the comments! Anything you'd like to see? Any requests? I'll try to work them in.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Aftermath of Violence, Character Death, Graphic Discussion and Threats of Rape, Implied (off-screen) Torture, and the beginnings of Alcoholism.

 

Crowley wakes up one morning groggy, dizzy, and confused.

“Zzzira?” she slurs as she sits up, and realizes that she’s on the floor beside their bed. There’s a bitter taste on her tongue and it makes her still in horror. A spell. That’s the only thing that leaves this kind of bitter aftertaste.

She searches her memory to recall the previous night, but she can’t remember anything past yesterday morning.

The demon stumbles to her feet, catching herself on the edge of a bookshelf to steady herself before she falls. After her vision focuses, she observes their bedroom with a sense of horror.

There is blood smeared on the hardwood floor—large puddles of blood with a few feathers lying in the mess. A bit of magic confirms her fears: it’s Aziraphale’s.

“Zira!” she calls out urgently, eyes searching over the ransacked and messy room—tables knocked over, books scattered, their bedroom door cracked down the middle.

She runs through the flat and bookshop, but she only finds more disaster, more blood, and no Zira.

He’s gone.

* * *

 

Crowley can find nothing. _Nothing_.

No evidence to tell her who broke through her wards or wiped her memory or took Aziraphale. Nothing.

She can’t even determine if it was Heaven or Hell.

Quick spell work reveals that he is not on earth anymore and she despairs.

He’s gone.

 _He’s gone_.

* * *

 

There isn’t much she can do, but she does it all. She pulls every favor, asks every contact, everything. But she can’t find anything of her angel.

So she puts on her proverbial big girl panties, steels herself, and returns downstairs.

Lesser demons take her to Lilith immediately upon recognizing her and hearing her order.

“Well, Crowley,” the blond greets coldly. “Been a while. Remind me again, when did you escape?”

She shrugs. “Oh, a while ago. Angels were everywhere and I used the distraction.”

“You’re a clever one, Crowley,” Lilith comments softly. “I need clever ones instead of just brainless muscle. I’m willing to overlook your previous…negligent absences, if you’re interested.”

“Why, Lilith, you read my mind,” she replies easily. “Sabbatical’s over. Time to get back to work. I know you’re working on the breaking the seals, I know it shan’t be much longer until our Father is free and defeating Michael, despite what those stupid Winchesters seem to think.”

The ‘first demon’ observes her curiously. “You’re _very_ well informed.”

“What did you think I was doing in my absence? Drinking cocktails of infants’ blood while lounging about on a beach? _Please_. I was out and about, busy, catching myself up on what I’d missed during my…time with Alastair.”

Lilith nods, coolly thoughtful. “As you say. For now, I want you on the Crossroads. You’re in charge, just make sure the number of souls gathered increases.”

A cunning smirk steals across her red lips. “That I can do.”

* * *

 

If there’s one thing Lilith admires, it’s efficiency.

Crowley knew this and knew her reputation for efficiency and getting the job done. She was known to be cunning, intelligent, ruthless, and manipulative.

They were all traits Lilith valued in her supporters. There were too many stupid, uncreative demons who could act as cannon fodder. It was more difficult to find clever lieutenants.

Crowley had known this and had fully expected Lilith to see her as an asset. Especially now, when she was working so diligently to free Lucifer.

She had not expected the Crossroads, but _oh_ did that suit her.

The Crossroads Demons, a clever, manipulative bunch, take to her immediately. They love the Temptress, love her strategy, love her methods, love her ruthlessness. She accepts their love and obedience easily. (Of course, they don’t _all_ love her, but she establishes her dominance and crushes the opposition easily under her stiletto heels with a smile upon her face.)

Being Queen of the Crossroads really gave one a reputation and power. Both of which she used to investigate Aziraphale’s disappearance and, after weeks of searching, had to conclude that Heaven was responsible.

He was beyond her reach.

For now…all she could do was accumulate more power, learn Lilith’s plans so she could divert them, and work to prevent the apocalypse.

Eventually, thanks to her efficacy and Lilith’s sadistic temper, Crowley finds herself as Lilith’s second in command.

It really says something about Crowley that she has no idea how she manages to pull stunts like this unknowingly.

After a time, she catches up on the more recent ongoings in the supernatural community on earth as well as the events in Hell.

The name ‘Winchester’ is spoken quite frequently. She takes the time to learn more than what Gabriel told her.

Sam and Dean Winchester, hunters. Overprotective, reckless, foolish, codependent brothers with daddy issues. The younger had been among Azazel’s chosen children. Of course, that hadn’t worked out, as Sam was killed and Dean had sold his soul to get Sam back. A year later, Dean was in Hell on the rack…only to be rescued by angels. And, because the world is never so random, the brothers were the true vessels of Michael and Lucifer.

Crowley sighs when she realizes what this means.

This time, it really is the Apocalypse. And it’d take an act of God to stop it.

That doesn’t mean Crowley’s just going to lie down and let it happen.

* * *

 

Ghosts from her past haunt her, unfortunately. Alastair, whenever she sees him, gives her a lascivious smirk and leer. The stumps and scars of her wings ache even more in Aziraphale’s absence. Nightmares still taint her sleep, made worse by the fact that there was no one to wake her and comfort her.

Not anymore.

No one, however, knows of Aziraphale. Or so she thinks until one evening when she’s working on some paperwork in her office in Hell until an unwelcome guest strides in.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls furiously. “Crowley.”

She doesn’t bother glance up from the contract she’s editing. “Hastur. Can I help you?” the Queen of the Crossroads asks, unimpressed with his swagger.

“Oh yes, I just heard of your promotion—congratulations,” he says oily. “The whore’s back working as a whore.”

Finally, she glances up from her desk. “That’s Queen of the Crossroads, to you, Hastur. And Lilith’s right hand. Mind your tongue.”

“Of course, she’s using your skills so efficiently, so glad for your return,” he replies, snarling at the threat. “I wonder what she’d say if she knew of your involvement with that angel?”

Slowly, she places her pen on the desk and leans back in her chair to observe him coldly. “My involvement with what?”

“That pathetic little angel who owned the bookshop, Aziraphale,” he answers with a cruel smirk. “I wonder if she knows of your relationship with him. After we caught you, I was curious what you’d been up to. How pathetic it was—the legendary _Temptress_ : bedding an angel and going soft. I bet you let him fuck you, didn’t you? I bet you loved it, you stupid slut—you probably begged for his angel cock.”

Crowley stands to observe him coldly. “Is that what you think?” she asks archly.

He snorts. “Don’t play coy, _Crawly_ —it doesn’t suit you. You were his little pet, weren’t you? Just when we thought you couldn’t fall any further—you go to an angel’s bed. That stupid, dithering angel. Not even much to look at, but I’ll bet you loved him fucking you, didn’t you? _Disgusting_.”

She steps out from behind her desk with careful movements as she prowls closer to the perverse Duke of Hell, closing the doors of her office with a flick of her hands. “Is that what you think, Hasssstur?” she purrs into his ear, circling around him slowly. “That I just loved his cock so much? Hm…You’re right, I suppose.” Crowley pauses to brush tauntingly at the growing erection in his trousers. “I suppose you thought the little slut should have come to you instead of some angel scum, hmm? You would have loved it. Just as I loved him fucking me.”

“You bitch,” he seethes as she palms his erection spitefully. “I should bend you over that desk right now and show you, you uppity cunt. Shoulda done it a long time ago too—just shove you down and fuck the memory of that angel out of you, make you scream, until you can’t walk for a week. If you thought some idiotic, fumbling angel was that great of a fuck—”

It only makes her laugh derisively. “Oh, darling, I _know_ he was. All the people I’ve fucked over the years? So many, I know, but—he was the best. I loved fucking him…I suppose it helped that I loved _him_.”

Hastur crows, equally triumphant and disgusted. “You thought you _loved_ him?! How soft have you gone, Crowley? Fuck. Wait til Lilith hears her right hand thinks herself in _love_ ,” he sneers, “with an angel. An angel who’s likely _dead_ if what I hear is right. How pathetic you are.”

The Duke of Hell turns to leave but he is, suddenly, sent down and pinned upon the floor.

“Not so fast, dearie,” she snarls with a tight grin as she creates a few cruelly sharp knives in her hands. “After all, it’s been so _long_ since we’ve seen each other. Time to catch up—starting with what you know about Aziraphale.”

“Sentimental now, are you?” he spits. “I heard you were there when he was taken—subdued by a simple spell. There in the same room, as they drove an angel blade into his heart—as his Grace ripped apart and destroyed. But you woke up in bed without a clue. Imagine your expression when you realized you’d never see him again.”

Crowley smiles coldly. “That’s an excellent start. Let’s find out what else you know,” she remarks as she kneels over him, knives ready.

“All of this, Crowley—just for an angel, really?”

She snarls. “He was _mine_. He was _my angel_. Now, you’re going to pay.”

As he laughs, inky smoke begins to pour out of his mouth.

The Queen of the Crossroads, however, is ready and shoves him back into the vessel. “You’re not going _anywhere_ , Hastur. Time to play.”

* * *

 

Hastur knows nothing about Aziraphale’s disappearance. He’d heard that Crowley’s angel had been taken while she was subdued by a spell—told as much by Beelzebub.

But he had nothing to do with it.

His misinformation reveals that much. As little as Crowley is sure of, she knows Aziraphale wasn’t killed there, as it would have left the burn impressions of his wings.

He's not dead. He can't be dead, she tells herself.  _Zira is not dead_.

Hastur knows nothing.

That doesn’t stop Crowley from thoroughly torturing the other Fallen with Alastair’s methods, before she eventually carves his wings into bits while he’s fully conscious and screaming. Only then does she kill him: slowly, agonizingly.

She has no qualms about admitting to enjoying his pain.

* * *

 

Despite the subtle warnings and whispers she sends down the grapevine to reach the Winchesters, they still break the last seal and release Lucifer.

That night, Crowley wants nothing more than to get drunk, but she can’t bear even the thought of wine like she and Zira used to drink together. So she finds the most different thing and eventually settles on Glencraig whisky.

The burn down her throat distracts her from the ache in her chest and the remains of her wings.

Beelzebub is her only possible lead on Aziraphale’s abduction, but he is too powerful for her. Going against him would be suicide. Besides, he’s gone presently, off on some mission. She can do nothing.

_I’ve failed you, angel. I couldn’t stop the apocalypse. I couldn’t find you. I failed you._

* * *

 

Later, after she’s sobered up, she returns to Hell in time for Lucifer’s arrival.

She watches his pomp and righteousness, his wounded-façade, how he preaches against God and the angels and heaven and humans. It’s interesting, in some ways. Millennia later, it’s practically the same speech as when he’d rallied the other Fallen for a final battle against Heaven—a battle that ended with his imprisonment.

The parallels are interesting, though there is no one else there to remember or notice them. She’s the only one left, now. Having killed Hastur and Ligur…she was the only Fallen left, save Lucifer himself and Beelzebub, the second of which was absent, off on some errand.

Which made her the third most powerful being in Hell.

 _…Excellent_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the Supernatural-heavy plot. The Winchesters will be appearing soon, as well as various other SPN characters.
> 
> If you can't tell, Crowley is currently in denial, telling herself that Aziraphale must still be alive. (I'm not saying one way or another. Nor does the Character Death warning necessarily mean more than Hastur.)
> 
> Also, well. . . here comes the downward spiral of Crowley's mental state. And the darker turn for our story. (Because obviously Crowley's imprisonment and torture in Hell wasn't dark enough.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Winchesters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...This chapter is longer as it encompasses a portion of episodes:  
>  5x10 - Abandon All Hope...  
> 5x20 - The Devil You Know
> 
> No warnings for this chapter aside from the canon-typical violence.

With Lucifer free, time is truly ticking.

It’s down to the Winchesters, now.

She sends feelers out, scouts and listeners, to watch and observe the hunters. She hears whispers, hears rumors that they aren’t so hot on the apocalypse either. They even, if her sources are correct, have a pet angel on their side—Castiel, the Angel of Thursday. As the archangels’ vessels, neither of the brothers are keen to be possessed for a death match, nor for the world to end.

They, she decides, are perfect.

Time to scheme out a plot to get into their trust.

* * *

 

The Colt.

That’s her answer.

A famed and hidden modified Colt, able to kill demons with a single shot. Thought lost…until they found it.

And lost it. Again.

Of course.

But just like that…an idea coalesces in her mind.

* * *

 

Crowley finds the Colt in the hands of a thief by the name of Bela Talbot, a cunning femme fatale with interest only in self-preservation. (Crowley likes her the instant she hears of the woman’s reputation.) In addition, the thief had made a crossroads deal very nearly ten years ago.

The Queen of the Crossroads appears in the thief’s hotel room, just as hell hounds begin to break in.

“Enough, boys!” she snaps, and they whimper in submission, halting several feet behind her. Crowley looks to the shaken thief. “Bela Talbot, yes?”

“Here to collect my soul?” she snips in a sharp English accent. Her voice trembles slightly, bravado unable to completely hide her fear.

The demon pauses to seat herself comfortably and smiles kindly. “Not quite, darling. In fact…I’m offering you the chance to buy it back. And there’s only two conditions.”

“I’m listening,” Bela agrees warily.

“Excellent,” Crowley replies lowly. “You give me the Colt, and then you leave America for good, never to return, never to contact anyone here again, _especially_ not the Winchesters.”

The thief watches her carefully. “And why would I do that?”

“Because Heaven and Hell are about to burst wide open. They’re going to attempt the apocalypse soon and the Winchesters have starring roles.”

She snorts. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she mutters.

“Yes, it’s hardly shocking news, I must agree,” Crowley says wryly. “But they will be important, and so shall the Colt. If it makes you feel any better, I’m working to stop the apocalypse. So really, making this deal is in your best interest. Especially considering I’m going to rip up your previous contract and allow you to live on.”

Relief allowing her snark and sass to return, the thief smiles slyly. “Well, when you put it that way, how can a girl refuse?”

* * *

 

Becky glances between the Winchester brothers. “Well you know she was lying, right? Bela gave the Colt to a demon named Crowley.”

* * *

 

Crowley waits in her usual state and gender, lounging in her home with a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. Though there is a documentary on Nazi Germany on the telly, her attention is outside, sensing as three hunters break in and kill her demonic security. Not that she minds. The little buggers were nosy, annoying, horny little bastards.

She had allowed the pet angel to spy on one of her deals, to follow her to the mansion. It was a coincidence that she made the deal while in male form, it really was.

When the power goes out, Crowley waits patiently.

The demon is dressed up for the occasion in a sexy little red number, the silky fabric draped over her skin and molding to her curves. The neckline is draped too, falling down between her breasts. The hem does not even hit her knee, but that suits her purpose. Her black stilettos are less practical, but they make an impression and Crowley learned to fight in heels centuries ago. With her black hair piled elegantly atop her head and blood red lipstick to match the dress, she is hell in high heels and ready for the famous Winchesters.

“Crowley, right?” one calls from the other end of a hallway.

She enters the hall and their sights; their eyes widen. “So…the Hardy boys _finally_ found me. Certainly took you long enough.”

They are exactly what she’s expected, from all that she’s heard, from demons and Gabriel alike. The brothers are tall, good-looking, and lethal. Sam has the look of a gentle giant, but she has heard of his temper. Dean reminds her of a Ken doll, honestly, but he’s familiar. Gabriel was right—they’re both handsome and she concurs with what he’d said: given the chance, she would jump their bones.

The _fun_ way, not the demonic way.

“Wait, _you’re_ Crowley?” Dean exclaims in disbelief, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

She laughs smugly. “Oh my dear, _really_ ,” she purrs. “You act as if you’ve never met a female demon before. Which I _know_ you have.”

“Uh…”

Her smirk curls wider. “Or perhaps it’s because your pet angel saw me as a man making a deal.”

“So that _was_ you,” Sam nods and pauses. “Why the change?”

She laughs. “A homophobic, stupid, greedy banker? Please. He got off too easy making the cursory negotiations with one of my girls. I needed to seal the deal anyway, why not have some fun? But I admit, I find this form more… _comfortable_ ," she purrs, the pitch of her voice dropping sensuously. "Suits me better.”

“Your favorite meatsuit?” Dean mutters testily.

The demon smiles. “Something like that. It has its advantages,” she adds, shoving her full breasts up ostentatiously, grinning. She strides forward, heels clicking loudly, but she stops before the rumpled Persian rug.

Crowley growls under her breath when she sees the devil’s trap spray painted on the bottom of it. “Do you have _any_ idea how much this rug cost?” she asks them as two of her lackeys sneak up behind the Winchesters and grab them.

With them restrained, she reaches down to pull the hem of her dress up and remove the Colt from the thigh holster because she has no qualms about flashing some leg. “This is it, right?” she murmurs, studying the weapon.

The boys’ eyes widen in shock.

“This is what it’s all about…” the Queen of the Crossroads studies the legendary gun admiringly before aiming it.

She shoots the two demons and smiles salaciously at the shocked hunters. “We need to talk… _privately_ ,” she purrs.

Hesitantly, the younger nods in agreement and she turns. “Follow me,” she calls over her shoulder as she leads them to her study. If her hips have extra swing than usual, well, that’s her prerogative and she smirks to herself as she feels their gazes drift down to her arse briefly.

So many reasons why she chose this form and this dress.

“What the hell is this?” Dean growls when they enter her study, lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the window and a few burning candles.

She snorts and looks at the gun in her hand as she perches on the edge of her desk. “Do you have _any_ idea how deep I could have buried this thing?” The doors slam shut with a twitch of her hand, making the boys jump. “There’s no reason you or anyone should know this even exists at all…except that I told you.”

“ _You_  told us?” Sam sputters in disbelief.

“Rumors, innuendo, whispers…all sent out on the grapevine for you to hear.”

Neither are phased. “Why? Why tell us anything?” Sam growls.

She pauses, raising the gun and pointing it at Dean. “I want you to take this thing to Lucifer and empty it into his intolerable, ugly, arrogant face.”

The shorter hunter rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Okay. And why would _you_   want the devil dead?”

Well that’s a complicated question if she’s ever been asked one…but they don’t need to know her whole history. “It’s called…survival. But I forgot,” she adds, setting the Colt down beside her on the desk and crossing her long legs, “You two, at best, are functional morons,” she shrugs with a patronizing sneer.

“You’re—functioning morons…” Dean tries and fails at a retort.

She giggles in condescension. “So clever, aren’t you Dean? My, my. But Lucifer isn’t a demon, remember? He’s an angel—an angel famous for his hatred of humankind. To him, you’re just…filthy bags of bloody pus…”

As she pours a glass of Craig, Dean and Sam exchange a glance, quickly followed by Dean jolting forward to snatch the Colt. Crowley tips her head and the brothers are sent flying back into two armchairs, away from her desk and the gun. “Ah, ah, boys. Manners, please.

“Anyways. If that’s the way he feels about _you_ …What can he feel about demons?”

She returns to her pose, sitting on the desk, legs on display, breasts and neck highlighted as she tilts her head back for a drink of the liquor.

“But he created you,” Sam replies.

Snorting, she rolls her eyes. _As if._ “To him, demons are just…servants. Cannon fodder. If Lucifer manages to exterminate humankind…demons are next. So…help me.” Crowley smiles. “Let’s just go back to simpler, better times—back to when we could all just follow our natures. I’m in _sales_ , damn it!” she exclaims and sighs.

“So,” she purrs throatily, coming to stand before them, hip cocked. “What do you say? What if I give you the Colt and you go kill the devil?” She holds it out, smiling encouragingly.

“…oh…kay,” Sam agrees warily, accepting the gun as they stand.

“Great,” Crowley responds and this is all going so well, all according to plan.

The taller brother looks from the gun to her. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the devil _is_ , by chance, would you?”

She pauses to search through a planner on her desk. “Thursday,” she reads. “Birdies tell me he has an appointment in Carthage, Missouri.”

“Great, thanks” the giant says and points the gun to her forehead. It clicks softly.

The resultant expressions of shock and panic upon their faces are absolutely lovely—she gets the feeling she’ll be seeing those looks quite often in the future. She takes a sip of Craig and nods. “Oh, yeah, right. You probably need some more ammunition…” the demon circles her desk to remove the box from a drawer.

“Uh, excuse me for asking, Crowley, but aren’t you kind of signing your own death warrant?” Dean asks. “I mean, what happens to you if we go up against the devil and lose?”

She straightens. “One, he’s going to wipe us all out anyways. Two—after you leave here, I go on an extended vacation to all points nowhere. And three— _how about you don’t miss?!_ ” she shouts, eyes flashing in irritation. “ _Okay? MORONS!_ ”

The Queen of the Crossroads tosses them the box of ammo and blinks out.

Time for some subtlety and hiding. Which are skills she excels at.

She doesn’t tell the Winchesters the Colt won’t kill Lucifer. She knows, just as she knows the gun wouldn’t kill her. She knows they’ll try and Lucifer wouldn’t dare kill or touch them. Nor will Sam agree to serve as a vessel. So they’ll be released…perhaps a bit worse for the wear, but…they’ll find her afterwards. At some point. They’ll want to find her and she’ll have been underground—in hiding, in danger. She _is_ putting her neck out there, but not pointlessly. It’s a calculated risk. They’ll be pissed off, for sure, but they will know she’s on their side. After all, she’s risking her neck to give them what they want, what they’ve been searching for. They will know she can be trusted marginally more than most demons.

This won’t end without the Winchesters. They’re the key to this apocalypse; with some pull on them, she might be able to help prevent it.

So she hopes.

* * *

 

The Colt doesn’t work. Lucifer lives.

They know Crowley gave the gun to the Winchesters.

And Crowley is in deep shit (Again. As usual.) and so she goes in hiding, away in a small house in a Yiddish village. She has eyes and ears everywhere, despite this, and keeps an eye on the situation.

The chess match has begun, truly, now, and the pieces are at play on the board. Her entrance into the game has been announced, but they likely still think her a pawn.

It’s always been that way. They’ve always underestimated her—angels, devils, and men alike.

That’s their weakness, really. They disregard her. They dismiss the Winchesters. They write off a little angel who has begun to understand free will.

Michael, Lucifer, and the angels—they all think everyone is playing according to daddy’s little plan, that the actors will go by the script. They don’t understand that the script is being torn up; it’s an improve show now.

Her brothers always underestimate others. _Always_. Every time. It will be their downfall.

If there’s one thing Crowley can do, it’s properly evaluate and understand others—allies and adversaries alike.

It’s the one reason she’s still alive today.

 

* * *

 

 

She gives them time to cool down before finding them. Apparently, she should have given them more time.

 “…Bobby, we’re in west Nevada. East is practically all there is,” Dean says as she appears in their quaint little Impala.

“ _Yeah, well, you better get drivin’_ ,” the other man, Bobby, responds and they end the call. She makes a note to investigate the man.

There’s a moment of frustrated silence, broken only by Dean’s huff. Crowley grins.

“Say,” she purrs from the backseat, startling both Winchesters, “I’ve got an idea.”

The car swerves as Dean hits the brake, and Sam spins to put a knife through her. She watches from beside the car with an amused smirk, holding a smoking cigarette holder to her lips. (She’s always enjoyed the elegant look of them, and she’s feeling a bit nostalgic for the roarin’ twenties at the moment—such interesting people, such loose morals, such a transitional era. What a time.)

“D’you get her?”

“She’s gone!”

Knocking on the window with her knuckle, she relishes the look of shock on the morons’ faces. “Fancy a fag and a chat?”

But the amusement fades as they stalk out of the car toward her, murder in their eyes. She backs away calmly, heels clicking on the pavement. “You’re upset—we should discuss it. Not—here, but—”

“You wanna talk,” Sam growls, knife still in hand, “After what you did to us?”

“What I—what _I did to you_?!” she exclaims, indignant. “ _I gave you the Colt!_ ”

The moose, she realizes, is something to be feared, especially in his anger. “Yeah, and you knew it wouldn’t work against the devil!”

“ _Excuse me!_ ” she exclaims, defensive.

“Fess up. We lost _people_ on that suicide run—good people!” Sam shouts.

“Who you take on the ride is your own business!” she spits back, but calms herself. “Look, everything is still the same. We’re all still in this together.”

“Sure we are,” Sam growls and lunges to knife her.

She’s always enjoyed the disappearing trick too much. But it saves her from getting a knife in the gut anyways.

“Call your dog off, please!” she sighs and Dean pulls his brother back, thinking.

He is furiously calm. “Give me one good reason,” he demands.

She straightens her coat and smirks. “I can give you Pestilence.” Thank God for Gabriel and his insight earlier a few years ago.

“What do you know about Pestilence?”

“I know how to get him—that’s got your interest, doesn’t it?”

They bicker and it momentarily amuses her but only for a moment. “Shut up the _both_ of you!” she shouts furiously. They quiet. “Look, I swear, I hoped the Colt would work,” she vows. “It’s an honest mistake! It’s all part of the learning process—but nothing’s changed. I still want the devil dead. _Well_ , one thing has changed—now the devil _knows_ I want him dead. Which, by the way, makes me the most fucked bugger in all of Creation!”

“Holy crap, we don’t care,” Dean rolls his eyes.

“They burned down my house!” she screams. “ _They ate my tailor!_ Two months under the rocks, like a _bloody salamander_ —every demon on hell and earth’s got his eyes out for me! Thank you both, _so fucking much_ for that.

“And yet, here I am—” she screams furiously, motioning around them with a flippant wave of her hand, “In the _last_ place I should be, in the middle of the road, talking to Sam and Dean fucking _Winchester_ under _a bloody spot light!_ ”

Frustrated beyond belief, she blows out said light, which does wonders for letting out her frustration, really.

She pauses, bringing the cigarette holder to her lips and breathing in a long drag, calming herself down, before she continues. “So come with me, please.” Silence. She sighs. “Do you want the Horsemen rings or not?”

They are shocked and she rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know all about that.” She doesn’t add that Gabriel told her long ago. “So, shall we?”

* * *

 

“Now how do you know about the rings?” Dean demands, after she supposedly leads them to her hide-out location.

She smirks, removing her coat. Conjuring a comfortable armchair, she seats herself before the fireplace, legs crossed elegantly. Today, the Winchesters have the luck of seeing another of her more lascivious dresses—a wine red satin slip that hugs her curves. Her breasts nearly spill out of it and her legs are miles long below the hem. The stilettos help.

With the motion of crossing her legs, both men’s eyes are drawn to her body and she smirks wider. She knows their weakness for a pretty woman and she isn’t above using that. It’s a rare source of amusement, anyways. Especially these days. She’ll take her laughs where she can get them. “I’m flattered, boys, but my eyes are up here.”

Both flinch and she gives a throaty chuckle. “To answer your question. Well. I’ve been keeping a close eye on you lot.”

Sam shook his head. “We’ve got hex bags, we’re hidden from demons.”

“All but one,” she points to herself smugly. “That night you broke into my house—our first date, shall we say—my assistant hid a tracking device in your car. A magical coin that easily trumps your bag of bones. Allows me to hear things too—and _my_ , the things I’ve heard.”

Crowley laughs lowly. “So you wanna cram the devil back in his box? Cunning scheme,” she admits, not that it’s theirs. “I want in.”

Dean observes her warily, thinking. “You said you could get us Pestilence.”

“Well, I don’t know where Pestilence is, per say…but I know the demon that _does_. He’s what you might call the Horsemen’s stableboy. He handles their itineraries, sees to their needs. He’s who you want. Believe me, he’ll tell us where Sneezy’s at.”

“Well how do we get him to spill?” Dean asks, not buying it for a second. “Rip out his toenails?”

“No, no. Nuts on his pay grade don’t crack. We bring him here, then I sell him.”

“Sell him,” Sam repeats, eyebrows raised skeptically.

“Please,” she purrs lowly, leaning forward. The motion again draws their eyes downwards, to her breasts, though they aren’t distracted. It simply drive her point home. “I’ve sold sin to saints for centuries. Think I can’t close one little demon?”

Dean finally nods. “Alright, where’s this demon of yours?”

She smirks.

* * *

 

“Moose is not coming,” Crowley informs them, matter-of-fact.

“Why the hell not?” he growls.

“Oh, shut it, Gigantor,” she snaps.

Sam sighs, aggravated. “Really? Why is it always my height you comment on, Crowley?”

Her eyebrows rise. “D’you _really_ want to know, Jolly Green Giant?”

“Sure, yeah,” he shrugs.

She smirks and strides right up to him, pressing her curves against his body, heels giving her a lift, but she still had to crane to put her lips by his ear. “Because, _Samuel_ …were circumstances different…I’d climb you like a tree.” With that, she nips his jaw quickly and retreats away.

“What the fuck—” Sam exclaims, a hand over the spot where a mark will form in a short while, to her amusement.

She laughs. She can’t help but tease them. It’s too easy.

“Focusing,” Dean comments sharply. “Why isn’t he coming?”

Rolling her eyes, she explains impatiently, “Because I don’t like you. I don’t _trust_ you. And…oh yes, _you keep trying to kill me!_ ” she shouts in his face and shrugs innocently. “Can you blame a girl?”

She has her reasons to hate them both, but she’s still a little peeved about him trying to stab her twice.

“There’s no damn way,” he snaps. “This isn’t gonna happen!”

She smiles patronizingly. “I’m not asking _you_ , because you’re not invited! I’m asking _you_.” The demon looks to Dean. “So what’s it gonna be?”

They share a glance and ‘no’ is written on their faces.

She sniffs. “Gentlemen, enjoy your last few sunsets,” and turns, striding away, heels clicking. _Wait for it…_

_And…_

“Wait.”

She stops.

“I’ll go,” Dean acquiesces.

* * *

 

“Door’s open!” she calls to Dean, wiping her knife off, the only thing with any blood on it. Her dress is spotless.

He stares at the corpses of the security personnel.

“What?” she snaps impatiently.

“You killed them?” he asks in disbelief.

Crowley sighs. “Come on, we’re on a tight schedule.” As he glances back, she tuts, “Now you’re squeamish? Please.”

She shoves him in the elevator, makes her excuses, and sends him up for Brady.

 

Of course, she knows it won’t work. But there’s a reason she doesn’t explain all her plans to a Winchester.

So when he inadvertently lures Brady downstairs, she pounces from behind him, throws a devil’s trap bag over his head and promptly bashes his brains in. Blood soaks through the burlap and he collapses.

Dean stares up at her from the floor as he stumbles to his feet. “What the hell was that?”

“ _That_   was perfect,” Crowley replies smugly as she observes the unconscious demon sprawled upon the floor.

“Perfect?” the hunter spits, bloody, bruised, and furious. “He didn’t want the rings—he wanted me!”

“Imagine the surprise on your face,” she ponders idly. She can see it right now.

“What?!”

“Your ignorance and misinformation—I mean, it’s completely authentic, you can’t fake that!” she muses. “What? It went like clockwork!”

“Not for me, you son of a bitch!” he yells.

She shakes her head, chastising. “That’s what you get, working with a demon.”

Really. What _had_ he expected?

* * *

 

“Where’s Dean?” Sam demands when she enters.

Crowley doesn’t answer his question. “Now, for the record, I’m against this. Negotiating a high level defection…it’s _very_ delicate business.”

When she blocks his way to the door, he demands, “What’re you talking about?”

“I begged Dean not to come back. He should be miles away— _from you_. He replied with a colorful rejoinder about my ‘cornshoot’. So…go ahead. Go ruin our last, best hope.”

He glares but passes her, to find the demon who he’s thought his friend in college. “It’s only the end of the world,” she adds, feeling the beginning of a migraine.

Maybe she’s allergic to Winchesters.

* * *

 

 “Maybe you should be a little less worried about our necks, and be a little bit more worried about _yours_ ,” Brady snaps at her. “… _No one_ will know greater torment than _you_. Lucifer is _never_ going to let you die.”

As if he was ever going to let her die in the first place, even before this.

She’s never been that lucky.

* * *

 

Crowley returns to, surprisingly, find things more or less as she’d left them, though Brady seems a bit more bloody.

“God, the day I’ve had,” she sighs in lieu of a greeting.

Both hunters jump.

Her dress is a bit torn, and there’s specks of blood on her face and hands. Crowley’s hair had been stacked neatly upon her head in an intricate knot, but it was falling down her neck now, almost post-coital in its messiness.

She stalks forward toward Brady. “Good news, my dear. You’re going to live forever.” The Queen of the Crossroads can’t hold in the smug chuckle.

“What did you do?” their prisoner growls.

“Went over to a demons’ nest, had a little massacre. Must be losing my touch though, let one of the little toads live. _Oops_ ,” she smirks. “Also might have given said toad the impression you left your post last night because _you_ and I are…wait for it…‘lovers in league against Lucifer’.” She smiles, showing all her teeth. “Hello, _darling_.

“So now, you get to be on the boss’s eternal torment list—with little ol’ me.”

 He shakes his head. “No, no no no no no…”

“Something else we have in common, aside from our torrid passion, of course: craving self-preservation. So, now. Why don’t you tell me where Pestilence is?”

* * *

 

She’s quite pleased for the chance to retrieve her hell hound and sic it on the other breasts when they attack their hiding place.

She’s even more pleased when Brady gives them Pestilence’s location.

Content with that, she leaves Brady in the Winchesters’ capable hands, confident Brady won’t last long. She doesn’t have a problem with it. She has other business to see to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Bobby.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley doesn't know what to make of Bobby Singer. Only that she likes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Manipulation, Character Death (past), Grief, Continued Implication of Alcoholism.

The Queen of the Crossroads goes to Bobby Singers’s… _quaint_   abode, quite amused when he produces a gun, pointed immediately at her. “Charming. That won’t work on me. Name’s Crowley,” she introduces herself lightly, studying the hunter curiously. “Maybe you’ve—”

“ _You’re_ Crowley?” he says, genuinely shocked.

She laughs, a thrum deep in her chest. “In the flesh…so to speak.”

He shoots her in the shoulder and it covers her in blood quickly. She winces in annoyance. “So you have heard of me…” She scowls, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder, put out. “I _liked_   this suit!”

“What’re you doing here?” he demands, eying her suspiciously from his wheelchair.

“Looking out for Crowley,” she replies simply.

“What the hell does that mean?”

She sighs, as if he is severely inconveniencing her by his questioning. “The boys are on to ring number three, but we still need number four. I’m here to help.”

The part-time mechanic rolls his wheelchair forward, watching her speculatively. “You know where Death is?”

Crowley observes him for a long minute and her smirk takes a playful edge. “No, haven’t the foggiest.”

He pulls out a rifle, pointing it at her quickly. “Then get the hell off my property before I blast you so full of rock salt you’ll crap margaritas.”

“That’s a mite unfriendly,” she scolds nonchalantly, unfazed. “And don’t be vulgar, there’s a lady present. And besides, I could be getting you Death’s location in about the time it’d take you to reload.”

“You’re just gonna chat some demons up and hope they don’t recognize ya?”

“God no,” she snorts at the idiotic notion. “That could get me killed…but there is this little… _spell_   that I know.”

He watches her warily. “Is that so?”

“Results are a hundred percent guaranteed.”

“Really? Then why are you snake-oilin’ me?”

“Well, it’s a little bit…embarrassing,” she admits, wrinkling her nose and shrugging casually, as it trying to cover up feeling sheepish. “There’s this little, well… _technicality_.”

The gun doesn’t lower. “Uh huh.”

Crowley sighs. “I _just_ need something to get the magic going.”

“And what’s that?”

 _Oh for the love of Go—of Sa—oh, for somebody’s sake._ This is just getting tiring, really. Who knew Robert Singer would be so difficult to convince. Paranoid bastard, isn’t he? Well, that’s a good thing—means he’s smart.

“You make a wish, I can give you anything you want, mate—up to and including Death’s coordinates. All I need is—”

“My soul,” the old hunter growled.

She shrugs elegantly. “I’ve done more with less. Let’s just say when they’re getting the Oscars and Grammys and awards, they shouldn’t all be thanking God…especially that little brat Bieber. It’s worth it, Bobby.” She smiles. “ _Think_.”

“…Okay,” he slowly agrees. “Here’s my counter—”

The rifle fires and pain in her chest makes her scream “ _OW!_ ” from where she's been thrown to the floor by the bullet's sheer force. “Bloody hell!

“Feisty.” He turns to find her leaning against his desk. “Hmm. I like that.”

“Get out.”

“I’ll give it right back,” she sighs dramatically.

Again, the gun doesn’t lower. “D’ya think Imma natural-born idjit?!”

“Quite the contrary,” she responds calmly. “You’re right to be suspicious…but I’m your ally. Enemy of my enemy and all that, yeah? I need the devil back in his cage. In fact, my finely-sculpted arse depends on it…so I promise you: temporary loan. I’ll give it back.”

He studies her for a long moment and she can see his resolve crumbling.

"Well?" She purrs, striding to his side. "Do we have a deal, Bobby dear?"

The grizzled hunter's face twists. "Fine. It's a deal, you bastard."

She laughs before cooing, "Oh darling, that’s precious, but you _know_ that's not how I seal deals. Nice try.”

He nods minutely and grimaces. She grins and considers the height difference between her (the heels didn't help) and the wheelchair-bound man.

She slips into his lap.

"What're you—"

The demon shushes him. "This will make things easier don't you think?" Before he can respond, she grabs him by the collar and pulls his lips to hers. He's frozen and she sighs against his mouth. "Come on, dear. Do you want to seal the deal or not?" She mutters and it jars him from his statue-like state. It takes some provoking and prodding to get him to properly kiss her, but it becomes one of the better kisses she's had recently.

It's like she's trying to devour him, or so Bobby thinks as her tongue plunders his mouth.

She's liquid heat pressed to him, all soft curves molding around him. With her knees bracketing his hips and her arms curling around him, there is no option _but_ to feel all of her against and around him. There was something of a challenge in how she nips and sucks at his bottom lip, how her nails rake over his skin, how she tugs at his hair, and how she holds his neck close. Bobby's not one to ignore a challenge, especially not from a demon. Especially not _this_ haughty little bitch.

So he presses forward, confident her face will be red and raw from his unshaven cheeks; somehow the thought makes him smug. His hands come up to her back and slowly wander as it all escalates. He reaches up to her neatly pinned-up hair, gives it a yank, and smirks to himself as her neat hair comes undone and loose around them. Melting into him, she moans suddenly into his mouth, certainly not objecting to the roughness of the motion, and his hand slides down to curl around the back of her neck and pulls her head closer as his tongue pushes further into her mouth.

As a result, she leans against his chest, her full breasts flush against him and, _God_ , it’s been so long he can't help himself for a moment.

There's a vaguely smug chuckle in response as he unbuttons her shirt a bit and reaches in to get a handful of a supple, generous breast. A quick pinch and twist of her puckered nipple cut off her laughter with a sharp gasp. She mewls in his lap and shoves her sensitive breast more into his palm, unashamed as her hips buck against him.

After a bit, his hand leaves her chest and wanders around, outlining her curves under his palm, before settling on the swell of her, indeed, finely-sculpted ass.

It's more than he's gotten in years and, hey if he's going to sell his soul with a bit of lip lock, he's going to damn well enjoy it.

And if it’s with a demon, well, the boys don't need to know the details.

The hunter doesn't notice her free hand slipping her mobile from her pocket to take a quick picture, everything in view from their snogging to his groping and her disheveled blouse and hair.

When he squeezes his handful of her arse, a breathy groan slips out of her throat as their noses bump and teeth clash. He, of course, notices her reaction and does it again. Her mouth breaks free of his as she gasps loudly, pale neck arching. She grinds down upon the hardness in his lap in retaliation before latching onto his neck with her teeth. This time it's Bobby that groans and she chuckles, smirking into his neck as she sucks on the soft skin there.

He goes rigid, suddenly, and his hands freeze in her hair and on her thigh.

Out of breath, she releases his neck and laughs lowly as she returns to her feet.

Crowley knows she must be a mess—pants suit wrinkled and disheveled, a couple of her blouse buttons undone, hair askew everywhere, face flushed, cheeks and neck reddened by his scruff, lips bruised—but it's worth it.

It's worth it to see the crimson lipstick smeared across Bobby's face and neck, a purple love bite already forming on his pulse point, face red from their activities and his rising anger, pants tented.

"My, my, Bobby…" she purrs with a smirk. “Never would have expected that from you, darling. But _bra-vo_."

"You bitch," he growls.

The demon smirks as she re-buttons her blouse and straightens her blazer. "Oh, you can't say it wasn't pleasurable, Robert. You rather enjoyed yourself, I see," she motions to his trousers and grins. "Anyway, you've got yourself a deal and I've got myself a soul. As for Death…he's in Chicago. I’ll get you the exact coordinates when the time comes. See you later, darling!" She blows him a kiss, winks, and vanishes, leaving a cussing hunter alone.

Well. She hadn't expected that, but she can't say she didn't enjoy it.

* * *

 

“Bobby, how’d you put all this together?”

The older hunter shrugs. “Oh,you know, I had…uh, help.”

Crowley chuckles, filling a glass with whisky. “Oh don’t be so modest,” she coos lightly. “I barely helped at all.”

They turn and stare in horrified confusion. “Hello, boys,” she acknowledges the Winchesters. “Pleasure, et cetera.” Still, silence. “Go on, tell them. There’s no shame in it, Bobby dear.”

Sam turns back to the wheelchair-bound man. “Bobby, tell us what?”

“…World’s gonna end. Seems stupid to get all precious about one little soul,” he grumbles.

“You sold your soul?!” Dean exclaims.

“More like pawned it,” the demon cuts in. “I intend to give it back.” _Eventually_.

“Then give it back!” Dean demands. “Now!”

Sam’s mind wanders elsewhere. “Did you kiss her?” The disgust is palpable in his voice.

“Sam,” his brother snaps.

“Just wondering,” the moose defends, face still twisted at the thought.

The brothers stare at him until Bobby vehemently denies, “ _NO!_ ” And Crowley resists the urge to cackle in joyful amusement of the coming reaction. Instead, she clears her throat loudly, holding out her mobile with the photo of their kiss on display.

It’s a glorious picture, she’d realized after the fact. Their snogging is clearly visibly, her free hand on the back of his neck, his hands in her hair and squeezing her arse. You can even see a hint of Crowley’s smirk. And, oh that’s wonderful, her crimson bra is visible where her blouse was unbuttoned, the lingerie obviously disheveled and the exposed skin pink from his fondling.

“Why’d you take a picture?” Bobby growls as the boys stare in horrified fascination.

Her eyebrows rise archly. “Why’d you use tongue?”

They stare, appalled, at Bobby, whose face goes red. She laughs. “Well, I can’t blame you, dearie. You’re a bit older than I like ’em, but you’re not unattractive, Bobby. And I’m not at all unattractive, either. It’s alright, dear. I don’t even blame you for copping a feel, either—my breasts are quite lovely, and my arse is nothing to pass over either. Perfectly understandable, darling.”

She strides over and perches on his desk before him, leaning over to pull his collar aside and reveal the poorly concealed love bite on his neck. “Ah, that’s right,” she purrs, proud and unrepentant. 

Dean stands after he overcomes the shock, though he seems thoroughly, amusingly disturbed. “Alright, I’m tired of this. Give him his soul back, _now_.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“ _Can’t or won’t_?” he shouts.

She sighs. “I won’t, alright? It’s insurance. You kill demons. Gigantor over there has a temper issue about it. But you won’t kill me—as long as I’ve got that soul in the deposit box.”

“You son of a bitch,” Bobby growls.

She chuckles. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby…Please, I’m a bitch, plain and simple. Anyway, I’ll return it when this is over, and I can walk safely away. _Do we all understand each other?!_ ” she shouts.

* * *

 

She offers up Death’s Scythe as they prepare to move out to find the last Horseman. Which she should value more, but at this point, she just wants to get the show on the road.

“…kills, golly—demons and angels and reapers and, rumor has it, the very thing itself,” Crowley explains flippantly.

“How did you get that?” Castiel asks intently and she rolls her eyes.

“Queen of the Crossroads, remember?” Angels, honestly. No wonder she doesn’t miss them, well…most of them. “Shall we? Well, Bobby, you just gonna sit there?”

“No, I’m gonna riverdance!” the hunter snaps, grumpy as ever.

She shrugs with a chuckle. “I suppose, if you wanna impress the ladies.” They stare and she sighs, yet again. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby…you _really_   wasted that crossroads deal, you know. In fact, you get more if you phrase it properly. So, I took the liberty of adding a teensy-tiny little sub-A clause—on your behalf…what can I say, I’m an altruist.” She looks to Bobby. “Just going to sit there?”

 _Aziraphale would be proud, at least_ , she thinks as she watches him stand. The thought is sobering and her smug mood vanishes, though she keeps the smirk there.

“Son of a bitch…”

“Yes, yes, completely worth your soul, I know. What can I say, I’m a hell of a gal.” She winks, smirk still forced.

“…thanks,” Bobby breathes in shock.

It’s too emotional at the moment—for them and her. It needs to stop. “This is getting too maudlin,” she mutters, wrinkling her nose. “Can we go?”

Honestly. They have a Horseman to find.

* * *

 

 “Oh, and Dean?” Death calls calmly. “Tell the demon who brought you this: I do not yet have her counterpart.”

He turns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Tell Crowley. She will understand what you do not. I have not taken her foil. Go, and remember our deal.”

* * *

 

It isn’t until later, back at Bobby’s place, that Dean remembers.

They had regrouped and shared news of their success, examining the final Horseman ring victoriously, the hunters with bottles of beer, the demon with a glass of whisky she conjured while leaning against a wall idly.

“Hey, Crowley, uh, Death told me to tell you somethin’.”

She snorts into her glass. “And just what could the Horseman have to say to little ol’ me?”

“He said…something about how he hadn’t taken your ‘counterpart’ or whatever, but—”

The hunter is interrupted by the sound of glass shattering as the tumbler slips from the demon’s hand. Her face pales suddenly. “…What?” she gasps lowly.

“He said he hadn’t taken your ‘counterpart’ or ‘foil’. What’s that mean?”

The Queen of the Crossroads stares at him in complete shock. Eventually, her knees give out and she crumbles to the floor amongst the spilled liquor and glass shards.

“Crowley, what—” Sam exclaims.

She just braces herself upright on bloody hands, not listening, eyes boring a hole into the floor.

For a moment, no one moves, until finally Bobby mutters under his breath and goes to pull her upright. She’s all but limp as he half carries her to the couch and sets her down.

After a moment, she seems to recover some of her senses and looks to Dean. “What else?” she croaks, voice shaking. “What else did he say?”

“That—that’s it,” he replies.

She snarls and grabs him by the collar of his plaid shirt with trembling hands. “ _What else?_ ”

“That’s it, I swear!” he shouts.

The demon releases her hold on him and crumples back onto the couch.

“Crowley, who was he talking about?” Sam asks.

She wets her lips. “I…he…” she stutters for a moment before apparently clearing the fog from her brain. She motions vaguely and the blood and cuts vanish from her hands, as well as the alcohol and glass from the floor. “Zira…” she whispers and if they didn’t know any better, one might assume it to be a prayer.

Castiel straightens. “Zira?” he repeats curiously. “Do you mean Aziraphale?”

Her head snaps up. “Don’t,” she snarls. “ _Don’t_ you _dare_ speak of him.” Despite her temper, it’s hard to be frightened of the demon when her entire body is shaking.

“Not another word,” she orders them all before sighing to herself, “I’m not drunk enough for any of this.” With that, an entire bottle of vodka appears in her hand and she takes a long swig directly from the bottle.

* * *

 

Later, when Crowley is thoroughly drunk beyond censoring herself, on her second bottle of vodka, Castiel dares bring it up again. “How do you know Aziraphale, Crowley?”

A bitter laugh is her response. “How could I not. I’ve known him for millennia. I was originally Hell’s permanently earth-bound agent, ya know—before I was given the crossroads. He was Heaven’s equivalent, living here on earth for six thousand bloody years. We fought for ages before we made the Arrangement. We were friends…even fought off an attempt at the apocalypse in the nineties. Succeeded, too. He was m’ friend…an’ more than I can say. But he…” her voice cracks. “He’s been missing for years. I thought him dead.”

Tears are in the demon’s eyes. They change the subject.

Though Crowley gets hammered, none of them say another word on about Aziraphale that night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To quote Adele's "Skyfall"...  
> "This is the end. Hold your breath and count to ten..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Suicidal Attitude, Canon-Typical Violence, Aftermath of Violence and Torture, Character Death.
> 
> Also, archangels are dicks, but we already knew that.

The next day finds the boys and Bobby outside in the yard, sipping on beers, trying not to think of the task before them.

“Where’s Crowley?” Sam eventually asks.

Bobby shrugs. “Goin’ through my books. Promised not to take or mess with ‘em and seemed genuinely respectful of them—especially the older ones.”

Beside him, Dean snorts. “A demon making a promise, _wow_   she’s so trustworthy.”

Bobby shrugs. “They’re books. It’s the apocalypse. Got bigger things to worry about than the demon Queen of the Crossroads rummaging through my library.”

“How’s she not got a hangover?” Dean grumbles. “She passed out last night after drinking—what—like three bottles of liquor, all by herself. Should still be dead to the world.”

“Apparently demons don’t get hangovers,” Sam shrugs wryly. “Despite how hammered she got.”

Who knew.

“Speaking of, did I drink too much or, well, was she…” Dean hesitates, doubting his memory.

“Cryin’?” Bobby supplies. “Yup. In tears about that…Zira fella.”

 “You mean Aziraphale?”

The hunters turn to find Castiel behind them. “So what do you know about all that?” Dean asks curiously.

For a moment, the angel says nothing, thinking as he glances up at the cloudy sky. “Not much, but more than most, I suppose. Aziraphale is well known amongst angels; he originally guarded the Eastern Gate of the Garden.”

“The Garden—you mean like…the Garden of Eden? Adam and Eve’s Garden?” Sam sputters.

“You are correct,” Castiel nods. “He is a Principality—the highest rank below the archangels themselves and so quite powerful, but not power-hungry. A good and kind angel…rather fond of books, if I recall correctly. After Eve consumed the forbidden fruit and they were removed from Eden, Aziraphale was stationed as Heaven’s permanent representative on earth.”

At this knowledge, Sam hums in thought. “Interesting.”

“After that I did not have contact with Aziraphale for millennia, while I was in Heaven and he on earth,” Castiel continues. “It was a few years ago when I saw him last—he was searching for someone…” The angel’s voice fades for a moment as he stares back at Bobby’s house.

“Cas?” Dean prompts.

“He was looking for someone…whom he thought Heaven had captured, but no one had any knowledge about it. That was when I received orders to lead my garrison into Hell to save you, Dean. Aziraphale volunteered to help and was with me very nearly until the end. Eventually, I lost him in melee and thought him killed. Afterwards, we had doubts about his death and began to search…but he was gone from earth and absent in Heaven. No one could locate him and so he was assumed dead. But if what Death said is true…”

“Then Aziraphale’s still kickin’,” Bobby surmised. “So, what? Not upstairs or here—what’s left, Hell? Wouldn’t she know if he was in Hell rather than think he’s dead?”

The angel shakes his head, almost frustrated. “I do not know. I’ll have to investigate later.”

Thinking, Sam pauses, forehead wrinkled in deep thought. “D’you think…Crowley might not really _be_ a demon? Or at least, not a normal demon?”

Dean snorts. “That bitch? Really, Sam?”

“What, I mean, it makes sense, Dean!” Sam replies, defensive of his musings. “Have you ever heard of a demon crying? Mourning? That’s what she was doing last night. She has no reason to fake that kind of emotion. Not to us. And, I mean, she is Queen of the Crossroads and one of the most powerful things we’ve ever come across—it kinda makes sense.”

“I’ll believe it when I see her wings,” the shorter snorts, skeptical as ever. “Wait, Cas, can you tell?”

“I cannot. As far as I am aware, she is a demon—an extraordinarily powerful, dangerous, and cunning demon…but only a demon. If she isn’t…she has warded herself incredibly well.”

They lapse into silence, broken moments later by a snort from behind them—Crowley, leaning against the Impala and watching them with a smirk. “Not polite, you know—talking about a girl behind her back.”

“Oh yeah, ‘cause you’re a paragon of virtue and manners,” Dean snaps.

Her eyebrows rise. “That’s rich coming from a Winchester,” she murmurs coolly and turns away. “I kept my promise, Bobby—your library is just as I found it—demon’s honor.”

“Yeah right,” Dean mutters to his beer bottle.

Bobby sighs. “Can it, kid.”

A smirk toys at the corner of her lips, but even her usual bravado is diminished by their looming duties. “If that’s all, gentlemen, I’m going to retrieve a few items. I’ll return shortly.”

She vanishes and Dean turns to the older hunter. “Really?”

“What?” He sighs. “Dean, you really shouldn’t antagonize one of our few allies—a powerful one at that, who would have little to no compunction about killing you. So shut your piehole next time, got it?”

“You gotta take her side on this, Bobby?” Dean mutters.

“She’s already got me by the soul, kid.”

He snorts. “More like got you by the balls.”

“You got somethin’ to say?”

“Didn’t say anything.”

* * *

 

She doesn’t bother inform them that she had overheard the entirety of their conversation, nor does she care that they are questioning her character and species.

What matters is what Castiel had told them. “… _Aziraphale vanished and did not answer our calls, he was gone from earth and absent in Heaven. No one could locate him and we thought him dead_.”

As far as Heaven is aware, he’s dead. He _isn’t_ dead. Her spellwork confirms that he isn’t on earth. He can’t be dead.

That leaves very limited options.

He is captive, she is sure of that. By Heaven or Hell, she isn’t sure—but it has to be by the top tier. Whether that means he was taken on Michael’s orders and hidden away in the dungeons of Heaven, to hide the shameful angel…or he was taken on Lucifer’s orders for leverage against Crowley.

She doesn’t know which is worse, but she hopes she is wrong.

* * *

 

Despite what they all expect, Crowley returns and remains. They wait for her to vanish off to whatever hole she wants to hide in, but she lingers, grim and determined.

She follows to Detroit, lingering even after Lucifer has Sam. They don’t ask and she doesn’t explain, remaining a quiet spector in their wake. So concentrated upon these proceedings, she doesn't bother with her constant sarcasm and wit; she's too tired, too worried, too focused for it.

When they learn Stull Cemetery is the destined site of the big battle, she goes too, without them asking.

If the smug demon is grim and silent, no one remarks on it. She's no more so than the rest of them.

Hopefully, maybe, possibly she will learn of her angel soon enough. Interrupting the prophesied battle between Michael and Lucifer is sure to be a death sentence for her, but if it is to stop the apocalypse (again), she's willing to do it. 

There's no Aziraphale here to make life worth living, no one to remind her of the simple pleasures, no one to keep her from ruminating upon the miserable eternity of her existence, no one to offer companionship, no one to laugh with, no friends, no lovers, no one to enjoy wine with and to have dinners at the Ritz with. No one. Not anymore.

She's tired, simply put. So tired. And as she learned centuries ago, even sleeping for years at a time will not end that exhaustion. 

Crowley can't find it in her to really care for her survival. She's committed to save humanity (annoying as they can be at times) and to stopping her immature and arrogant brothers. 

Well, she doesn't really expect they'd manage to stop them without her. Really. A ken doll with daddy issues, an old alcoholic, and a weakened little sparrow of an angel? It's doubtful, but maybe a fallen angel-cum-Queen of Hell will tip the scales. 

Maybe she will learn Aziraphale's fate in the process.

* * *

 

Blaring Def Leppard, Dean pulls the Impala into the Cemetery and Crowley appears next to him, pale and determined as she observes her eldest brothers.

“Dean. Crowley,” Lucifer growls in recognition. “I didn’t expect this of you. Interesting.” It’s disconcerting to see her brother— _sister_ — _sibling’s_ mannerisms and countenance in the form of Sam Winchester. But she can recognize the inflections in the archangel’s voice and the particular posture he bears.

“A pleasure to see you as well, Lucy,” she curtseys mockingly, but her face is set in a cold snarl. “Been a while.”

Beside him, Michael inhales sharply in abrupt recognition. “ _You?_   Well, I’d wondered what happened to you.”

“Michael, it’s been _ages_ ,” she bites out at the scowling archangel. “Glad to see you’ve gotten off your high horse and finally _graced_ us with your _oh-so-pleasant_ presence.”

Lucifer, however, has more to say to his former-underling. “I believe I have something of yours, Crowley.” He snaps his fingers and calls, “Beelzebub!”

When they turn, a demon has appeared, bringing with him a bloody mess that takes Dean several long moments to realize is a person. Crowley is frozen in shock before she begins to tremble in rage. The hunter puts a hand on her arm to hold her back, but she hisses at him, “ _Let go of me, Winchessssster, if you value your arm_.” Her voice trembles too, hissed out between her clenched teeth.

Immediately, he releases his grasp on her.

“ _What did you do to him_?” she nearly screams at the demon, smirking coldly at her.

Beelzebub laughs, and it sounds like bones cracking. “Oh, you know Alastair’s usual routine, don’t you, Crowley? His apprentices just love fresh meat to practice on—especially those of a divine quality. Holy oil and fire makes for such delightful torture, don’t you think?”

Like lightning, she has a sword in hand and is on the other demon, lunging at him like an animal. It’s nearly too quick for human eyes to keep up with, but he catches enough pieces to follow—Beelzebub slamming her into a tree which falls—Crowley tossing him by his throat—a blow to her chest—a fist to his crotch then a blade through his neck.

When Dean blinks, Beelzebub is gone and Crowley is already at the blond man’s side, who he assumes to be Aziraphale, if his hunch about what Death and Castiel had said is right.

The demon’s hands are uncharacteristically gentle as she lifts the unconscious bloody mess of a man into her arms, cradling him in her lap. When she lays a hand on his forehead and revitalizes him with some of her power, she is immensely grateful for her skill with healing as his eyes open swiftly, focusing upon her eagerly.

“What—” he begins, panicked, seeing the blood first.

“Not my blood, angel,” Crowley interrupts quickly, stroking his cheek soothingly. “Beelzebub’s…and yours. He had you. I thought you were…

“Well. He’s not alive anymore. Are you alright?”

He nods. “I will be. But…how long…how long has it been…?”

Pursing her lips, she hesitates. “About five years on earth…about six centuries in Hell. I searched, Zira,” she whispers brokenly, face crumpled in regret. “I searched for you for so long…I went back to Hell to search, to gain more power to look for you but…they must have hidden you too well.”

“You…you went back to Hell?” he repeats, eyes wide.

The fallen angel winces. “I…I had to look for you,” she shrugs. “If it meant dealing with the devil to do that, I would. I had to find you.”

Aziraphale nearly sobs in heartache. “Crowley. You broke your oath. You swore you would stop looking for me if I—”

The demon shakes her head calmly. “You know as well as I that I never could uphold that, my love.” Her voice, so often a coarse tone, is as gentle as a caress across his skin.

“I wish you could try,” he murmurs, then pauses as some thought occurs to him. He smiles up at her. It’s a beatific sight. “Crowley, did you say—”

“Yes, of course I did, you stupid angel,” she murmurs tenderly. “Could I have been more obvious that I love you?”

Azirphale’s answering smile is brighter than she has ever seen before. “No, but hearing it is marvelous, my dear.”

Why— _why_ had she never said it before? _Why?_   How could she? To think that he was taken from her, that she nearly lost him—never telling him the truth.

“I love you,” she replies softly, intently. “I love you, I lo—”

So focused on her found loved one, she had forgotten the others nearby.

Dean, watching the scene, sees it coming but can do nothing to prevent it.

Michael and Lucifer had hung back during her fight with Beelzebub and done nothing. Now, however, Lucifer produces his sword.

Wrapped up in their own reunion, neither notice this until Lucifer is behind Crowley, shoving his sword through her chest. The demon screams, though the sound dies halfway through in her throat, as she chokes and blood fills her mouth. “You always were a sentimental fool. Even before your fall,” the Morningstar mutters calmly.  

When he pulls it from her body, he vanishes it—blood and all—and returns to stand near Michael, watching dispassionately as their sister gasps her dying breaths.

Crowley’s hand flies up to her chest, where a sudden red stain blossoms over her dress and the very end of the sword emerges briefly through her chest. She slumps forward and Aziraphale is quick to right himself to cradle Crowley instead.

“Zira…”

The word is a small whimper as her eyes flutter, trying to focus upon the wound then darting to his face. Light begins to slip through the injury as well.

“No, Crowley—” the angel exclaims.

She snatches his hand with the bloody one of hers. “Zira,” she whimpers softly, clutching him clumsily with weak hands. “Z…Zira…”

Dean looks away, unsure if he should watch the moment between them. When silence falls, he glances back. All that is left of her is a small, bloody, crumpled body.

For a moment, there is impossible disbelief in the angel’s eyes before the shock fades from him and all he can do is clutch her body to his chest, bury his face into her hair, and weep—broken tears and keening sobs.

The look on Aziraphale’s face is one of utter devastation. It is the face of a man who had finally gained everything he’d ever dreamed…and lost it in an instant. It is the look of someone how has lost a vital part of themselves and can’t function with the remains. It is the look of Atlas, bearing the weight of the world on his back alone. It is the look of someone who has lost their entire world—watched it die helplessly and then losing it utterly.

Dean would know. He’s seen it often enough and caused it a fair few times. But none of those times bear this kind of significance, not that Dean is fully aware of it at all.

Because this is Aziraphale: an angel who has spent six thousand years plus on earth—who has spent that time fighting, trusting, befriending, and loving Crowley—who is an immortal being who now looks like he’d give everything, give his life, give the world to have her back. Because this is Aziraphale and to see that look on an angel’s face because of his love for a demon is incredible. Because this is Aziraphale, who has been an angel for millennia, who has saved the world several times, who looks like he has lost his entire world.

Dean realizes abruptly that maybe Aziraphale actually has.

Before anything else can be done, Michael turns his cold gaze to Aziraphale. “ _You!_ ” the archangel snarls, infuriated. “You traitor! A demon, really? _Her_ , of all beings? _Again?_ ”

Bloody, bruised, battered, and grieving, Aziraphale is unfazed by his fury as he looks up to Michael. “I have loved her for ages, Michael. And I regret nothing at all.”

Lucifer sneers. “You are a fool, Aziraphale. Just like her,” he remarks with cold pity. “Your devotion and love for that…pitiful creature will be your downfall every time. You never learn do you, brother?”

The blond angel glares fiercely. “I love her, Lucifer. I have suffered Hell’s torment for six hundred years—for _her_ , to protect _her_. I would die a thousand deaths for her. All of it—every pain, every scream, every sob—is worth it. I would do it a hundred times over. Because _I love her_. You had best kill me now, brothers. Because you just killed the one I love—and if either of you survive this, I _will_ find you and I _will_ kill you. _Because you took her from me_.”

“So be it,” Michael snarls and waves a hand. Aziraphale and Crowley’s body both vanish instantly and Dean doesn’t have time to wonder if Aziraphale is dead or alive. There are other things to worry about.

Castiel appears with Bobby. “ _Hey, assbutt!_ ”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald
> 
> "Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath." - Eckhart Tolle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Grief, Panic Attack, the beginnings of Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and the beginnings of Manipulation (emotional and situational).
> 
> Thus begins another story arc. Also, as requested, some outsider POV of Crowley. Enjoy!

Crowley wakes up in the cemetery, her only company Dean, Castiel, and Bobby, all hovering over her.

She sits up, confused, staring about them. “What…”

Memories flood back.

“Where— _where’s Aziraphale?_ ” she rasps sharply, but she appears about as intimidating as a toddler.

The dark look exchanged between them sends her sprawling back to the ground. “No…” she whimpers weakly. “No, he’s not…what…how…”

“Michael,” Castiel begins awkwardly, unsure how to explain the fate of his brother. “He…”

“He vanished your buddy,” Bobby cuts in gently. “Dunno where he is, or even if he’s dead or alive.”

She sucks in a shaky breath, body tense as she controls her reaction. “How…how am I here?” she asks, forcing calm. “Lucifer ganked me with his sword. I should be dead. I _was_ dead!” she shrieks in heartache.

Castiel nods. “As was I. It must have been God.”

“ _Impossible_.” She stares, brow wrinkled and eyes wide in denial. “That…that makes no sense. Why would God bring _me_ back? I’m a demon, the Queen of the bloody Crossroads! I fought the divine plan not once, but twice—I helped avert _two_ attempts at the apocalypse! _Why the fuck would he do that?_ ”

“I do not know,” Castiel replies, solemn as he gazes down upon her. “But there’s no other possibility.”

“Then…where’s Aziraphale?” Crowley all but whimpers, her will vanishing. “He’s not—he can’t be…Oh God, he—he—Zira… _Zira_ …”

She collapses to the ground, crumpled in the fallen leaves.

“Come on, ain’t nothing we can do here,” Bobby mutters, pulling her up. “Crowley, get up, girl.”

The demon doesn’t respond, silent but for the tears slipping down her face. With a sigh, Bobby picks the demon up carefully, but she doesn’t even seem aware and merely hangs limply in his arms.

“Alright, boys, let’s get back home now. Nothin’ we can do here,” Bobby mutters.

Slowly, they make their way to the Impala, Dean being prodded along by Castiel. Bobby takes the wheel and has Cas watch the catatonic demon in the back seat.

* * *

 

Quickly, Dean and Castiel leave Sioux Falls and they all go their separate ways.

Bobby finds himself with a demon to look after. A demon who seems to have put herself in a catatonic state of grief.

It lasts for a week, watching her lay on his couch constantly, unaware, unresponsive.

One morning, when he wakes up, he finds her gone. The only evidence he can even find of her presence is a fully stocked refrigerator and several expensive bottles of old Scottish whisky. He takes it as a thank you, even though he would much have preferred his soul.

* * *

 

Crowley, when she comes to her senses, finds herself curled on the ratty couch in Bobby Singer’s home, with a blanket tossed over her and a pillow under her head.

No demon traps or salt near her at all. No traps, no tricks.

She leaves, but not without a gift of gratitude. (He could have ganked her, after all, but he didn’t. In some ways, Singer reminds her of Aziraphale and it hurt.)

She has work to do.

* * *

 

Hell is in chaos. With all the demons reeling from the loss of their great leader and his most loyal lieutenant, no one has yet to assume leadership and so it is terribly easy for Crowley to snatch the reins. Within a week, she’s established herself as Queen of Hell and reorganized it entirely.

Her newfound power she puts to use searching for Zira. Absent of hell, she can’t find him on earth either, and she worries. Either he’s in hiding, captured, being held in heaven beyond her reach, or…

She keeps searching, desperate.

She keeps failing.

* * *

 

Her desperation turns to fury and pain.

After sending three demons flying across the room during an argument, she realizes her temper and fraying control. She sends them out of her office with a snarl and locks herself in privacy for a few hours.

There, alone in her dark office, she drinks and drinks her Glencraig, relishing the burn of it as it matches the ache in her heart. Eventually, Crowley finds no solace in the bottle and sends it flying into a wall, watching it shatter calmly.

How pathetic.

She’s the fucking _Queen of Hell_ , a mighty and powerful Fallen Angel—the only one left in Hell. She’s the Temptress, the Creator of Original Sin.

She’s a wretched sobbing mess, curled in an armchair, nearly tearing out her hair, clawing at her arms for distraction. She kicks and screams and sobs and destroys things.

Nothing helps. Nothing really can. She’s the Queen of Hell, with all demonic and so very many monstrous forces under her thumb…and she can’t even find one little angel.

Soon after her resurrection, she realized that it included a newly minted set of wings, restored to their former glory.

Crowley wants to cut them off. She can’t bear to look at them; it just makes her think of Zira.

After time, after her tantrum ends, she emerges from her office cool and neat, apathetic and cruel as she continues to assert her control over Hell and remodel and reorganize and plot.

In her mind, in quiet moments, she is crying out.

 _Father, why?_   She finds herself praying one night. _Why? Why am I resurrected, but Aziraphale is left to whatever fate Michael punished him with? Is he dead? Does he yet live? Where is he? Why would You save me but not him? Why, Father? What have I done? Why?_

No matter how much she prays, He never answers. As if she had expected anything else. Humans aren’t the only ones whose prayers go unanswered.

Her plans to listen in on angel radio and the grapevine for anything relating Heaven’s dungeons or an imprisoned angel fails. She hears nothing.

Crowley can’t find Aziraphale.

Her heart breaks when she remembers those last precious moments with him.

_“Crowley. You broke your oath. You swore you would stop looking for me if I—”_

_“You know as well as I that I never could uphold that, my love.”_

_“I wish you could try…”_

After she has exhausted every option, she traces the scar across her palm from where she’d originally made the blood oath. As Crowley swallows back tears, she sighs. “This time I will keep my word, angel…though it kills me to do so.”

She stops searching.

Her fury has given way to grief, which only serves to harden her and make her cold. She shuts down, is perfectly calm and icy, refuses to allow anything else to escape.

She can’t have her angel. So she lashes out in her pain.

* * *

 

After some time, she finds herself summoned to Bobby Singer’s chaotic home again.

Bobby is surprised to observe the change in her. Last time he’d seen her (non-catatonic, anyways), she’d been a fragile mess that she somehow managed to hold together with some of her whisky. She had been shaken and fearful but defiant in the face of their impending death.

What he now faces is something more severe, as if all her cracks had been sharpened into cruelly serrated edges and blades. No more taunting smirks or smug leers; now, her expression was cold and hard: blank glares and threatening snarls. Her sarcasm has been honed to cruelty.

“Ten years,” she snarls, striding up to him, chin raised as she sneers down her nose at him. “You come to _Mama_. Til then I suggest you start drinking the good stuff.” She eyes the rotgut on his desk distastefully.

He glares, arms crossed. Bobby hadn’t quite expected this change in her, but he isn’t intimidated by it—by her. “I figured you’d say that. So you can _rot here_ til you change your mind.”

Tossing her head back, she laughs scornfully. “Why? Because you asked nicely?” she all but spits as she laughs.

“No…” he circles around her, watching her stiff posture and icy expression. “Because I’m goin’ Dateline on your ass.” He kills the lights and the glowing devil’s trap appears under the blacklight.

“Really hope that’s paint,” she snipes, thinking of how urine also glows under ultraviolet light _._ The demon turns to sneer. “Really. What _am_ I going to do…”

As the hunter turns, she whistles and Growley snarls in front of Bobby, making him recoil. “Doggy breath. Bracing, isn’t it?” She smiles coolly to him and politely informs him, “Ball’s in your court, Robert. Ten years living…or ten years as Alpo.”

He’s all but seething as he flicks out a knife and breaks the trap. “This ain’t over.”

Her laugh is like a winter wind: biting, cold, apathetic to his fury. “Oh, _darling_. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she snarls, lip curled.

She walks out of the trap, pausing beside him to smirk. “Happy hunting,” she mutters to him, face cold as she watches him with empty eyes, close to his face as a finger ghosting over his jaw, red manicured nails slicing a thin cut into his skin, before she turns on her heel and vanishes.

* * *

 

After asserting her control over Hell, Crowley turns her eyes toward Heaven, watching the chaos upstairs carefully.

She watches carefully and listens on angel radio as Raphael attempts to usurp control, and tries to settle things down enough for him to release Michael and Lucifer, to get the apocalypse back on track.

Raphael, she remembers, has always been a dick. A blindly steadfast, traditionalist, _arrogant_ , stern, cynical dick. (Needless to say, she isn’t fond of him.)

And she watches as Castiel rejects the archangel’s plans and tries to stop him, too weak to pose any true threat.

A plan forms in her mind.

Well, it’s a revision of her previous plan, and the epiphany of it makes her smirk in expectant glee.

 _Oh_ , she thinks, interested. _This is gonna be good._

* * *

 

She finds him watching Dean invisibly, practically radiating regret. It hasn’t been long since his failed meeting with Raphael and she’s heard much of his failure.

“Ah, Castiel, Angel of Thursdays,” she purrs in greeting as she appears beside him. “Just not your day, is it?”

The angel glances to Dean worriedly before facing her, glaring flatly. “What’re you doing here?”

“I want to help you help me help ourselves,” she replies simply.

“Speak plain.”

She smiles pleasantly. “I want to discuss a…simple business transaction, that’s all,” she shrugs, casual to any eye. But Castiel knows better. The last time he had seen her, she was all but destroyed in her grief. That she now appears before him neat, composed, as if that trauma had never occurred—it is too suspicious. 

He straightens, his stance rigid as he regards her warily. “You want to make a deal,” he said incredulously. “With me? I’m an _angel_ , you _ass_. I don’t have a soul to sell.”

It makes the Queen of Hell laugh heartily, and Castiel doesn't notice if her face is too tight and grin too wide. “But that’s it, isn’t it? It’s the _souls_. It all comes down to the souls in the end, doesn’t it?” she murmurs, watching Dean rake leaves as he hums Metallica.

“What’re you talking about?”

Her eyebrows rise. “Raphael’s head on a pike. I’m talking about happy endings for all of us…with _all_ possible entendres intended,” she purrs, stepping into his personal space, so close that her breasts were nearly pressed to his chest. Were he someone else, his eyes would be looking down her shirt, but Castiel—oblivious to sexual advances as ever—merely watches her face carefully. “Come on, darling. Just a chat.”

“I have no interest in talking with you,” he declines immediately.

“Why not?” she pouts. “I’m _very_ interesting, I promise. Oh, come on—hear me out. Five minutes. No obligations. I promise…” Crowley pauses to lean in so her lips drag by his cheek before hovering by his ear. “I’ll make it worth your while, darling.”

Castiel hesitates, looking back to Dean regretfully as he thinks, before eventually nodding.

She grins and leads him away, coat flaring behind her.

“Where are we?”

The Queen grins widely, proudly. “You don’t recognize it, do you? It’s Hades, new and improved. I did it myself.”

He glances around, taking in the incredibly long queue before them. “This…is Hell?”

“Yeah. Problem with the old place was that most of the inmates were masochists already,” she explains calmly. “A lot of ‘Thank you, sir, can I have another hot spike up my jacksie?’ But just _look_ at them.” Crowley grins with forced glee. “ _No one_ likes waiting in line.”

“And when they reach the front?”

“Nothing. They go right back to the end again—now that’s efficiency.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, thoroughly unimpressed by her productivity. “You have four minutes left.”

Fine. Time to focus. “What are you planning to do about Raphael?” she inquires lightly, following him as he wanders.

“What can I do besides submit or die?” he shrugs, strangely defeatist about it all.

Laughing, she sneers. “Submit or die—what are you, French? How about resist? _Do you hear the people sing_ —and all that?”

“I’m not strong enough and you know it,” Cas snaps curtly.

 _Cassie, Cassie, Cassie…_ she sighs to herself. “Not on your own, you’re not. But you’re not on your own. There’s a lot of angels swooning over you—God’s favorite. Buddy boy, you’ve got what they call _sex appeal_. Between those blue eyes, that trench coat, and your mysterious air…Trust me,” she adds lowly, sensuously, giving him bedroom eyes. “I _know_ sex appeal.”

He eyes her impatiently. “Thank you. Now get to the point.”

“Angels need leaders, so be one,” she instructs easily. “Gather your army and kick the candy out of each and every angel that shows up for Raphael.”

Finally, Castiel turns to fully face her, head tilted to the side as he regards her in utter disbelief. “Are you proposing that I start a _civil war_ in Heaven?”

This time, she rolls her eyes. “Ding ding ding. Tell him what he’s won, Vanna.”

“You’re asking me to be the next _Lucifer!_ ” he spits, glaring furiously.

“Oh, please,” Crowley rolls her eyes. “Lucifer was a petulant child with daddy issues.” _God, was that an understatement._ “Cas, you _love_ God. God loves you. He brought you back. Did it occur to you that maybe he did this so you could be the new sheriff upstairs?”

He shakes his head after a moment. But that moment of consideration and thought is all she needs to press on. “This is ridiculous,” he insists. “The amount of power it would take to mount a war—”

“More than either of us have ever seen, yeah,” she interrupts calmly. “But what if I said I know how to go nuclear?”

“What do you mean?”

“Purgatory, my fine feathered friend. _Purgatory_ ,” she explains simply, smiling. “Just think about it. An untapped oil well of every fanged, clawed soul. I mean—what’s that over the years, thirty million? Forty? Just sitting there, plump and rich for the taking!”

“And how would you find it when no one ever has?” he asks as they stroll down a side corridor.

She smiles and laces her arm through his, as if he were a gentleman escorting a fine lady. Which, in a sense, he was. Crowley was Queen after all. “We’ll need help from experts, of course—but I know two eerily suited _Teen Beat_ models with time on their hands.”

“No,” Castiel snaps immediately, glaring. “Not Dean. He’s retired and he’s going to stay that way.”

The Queen studies his protective expression calmly before rolling her eyes. “Fine. Then I know of a certain big, bald patriarch I can take off the bench. The point is—they can get us to the monsters. The monsters can get us to Purgatory, I know it.”

Castiel is actually considering it. “What’s your price in all this?”

“Just half, nice and fair,” she responds, but cuts off his protest before it can begin. “Listen, ducky, my position isn’t all that stable. Those souls would help—just like they’d help you. Besides, wouldn’t you rather have me in charge down here? The devil you know.”

He shakes his head. “This is pointless. Your plan would take months and I need help now.”

 _Oh fine._ “Granted, yes…but just to show you how serious I am about this scheme…how about I float you a little loan? Say, fifty large?" She offers, wiggling her eyebrows as she speaks. "Fifty thousand souls from the pit. You can take them up to heaven, make _quite_ a showing…”

She’s scrapping the bottom of her bag of tricks. Again, she feels like the serpent in Eden, hissing sweet nothings into Eve’s ear, wearing down her resolve, making hollow promises and fabricated predictions, using false logic.

“It’s either this or the apocalypse all over again,” she reminds him softly. “Everything you’ve worked for—everything _Sam and Dean_ have worked for… _gone_ …You can save us, Castiel.”

He turns to face her once more.

“God chose you to save us. And I think…deep down…you know that,” she murmurs and taps his chest, eyes not leaving his thoughtful stare.

Slowly, he nods.

“Then let’s seal the deal, darling,” she murmurs and presses him back against the wall, pins him there, and covers his mouth with her lips.

 _Got him_.

* * *

 

Crowley has always confused him.

Demons he understands. They’re simple: death, destruction, chaos—that’s all they care for. But Crowley…from the shadows of obscurity to Queen of the Crossroads to Queen of Hell, she stands out from other demons and Castiel doesn’t like it.

It disconcerts him, being in her presence, honestly. The angel would never admit it, but from the first sight of her—in the form of a man, sealing the deal with that banker—she has unnerved him. There’s something about her that makes him… _uncomfortable_.

Only recently has he identified that unsettling quality.

When the demon kissed him to seal the deal, her body molding to his, her hands everywhere—that’s when he realizes. She is a succubus—and he’d forgotten that.

Dean would probably make jokes and obscure references about it, Castiel knows, but that aspect of humanity…he is clueless about it. Completely and utterly confused by human sexuality. Usually, the angel could ignore that facet of humanity, but…he could not when Crowley was nearby. Because she is a sexual creature, because she operates with sex and appearances and pheromones as weapons, because she does not let one ignore it nor forget it. She, as the saying goes, shoves it in one’s face.

Though she had claimed that he has sex appeal, it is she who parades around with a mantle of sex appeal about her shoulders.

But once he identifies that as the unsettling aspect, Castiel can surmount that overwhelming quality, he can understand Crowley more.

As well as an angel can ever understand a demon, of course.

She’s self-serving, of course, and makes no pretense of being otherwise. Intelligent—intimidatingly so, if the angel is honest with himself. Hiding under that façade of humor and affability, she is a cunning creature whose only goal seems to be herself.

Her connection to Aziraphale, however, continues to mystify him.

But, for now, that is a mystery for another day. 

* * *

 

The Queen of Hell brings back a matching set to earth—dear little Sam from the Cage, and his grandfather Samuel from Heaven. It takes her and Castiel together to pull Sam from the Cage, but even then, they cannot bring his soul. Even they, with all their combined strength, cannot rescue it too—not without sacrificing themselves to Lucifer and Michael.

Crowley, for one, is not willing to pay that cost.

But she can use them. Oh how she can use them.

Because Samuel is of the same stock as Moose and Squirrel. They’ve got the same desperate, unhealthy attachment to family, as if sharing genes really meant anything in the world. So she dangles the life of his daughter over his head and she’s reeling him in within minutes.

The puppetmaster smiles to herself, content to watch the marionettes play their ignorant roles.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby wants his soul back and the boys learn about their new boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Manipulation, Hints of Seduction, Implied Alcoholism.  
> Nothing too bad in this chapter. (Just wait though.)

There are many reasons for Bobby’s persistent line of inquiry. Namely, he wants his soul back.

Despite this, when he figures out his plan, he is surprised to find that he doesn’t really want to kill her.

Demons can’t be trusted, he knows that. He’s told the boys that over and over—hell, Ruby's a prime example of the fact that even when demons are helpful, it's for their own purposes. There are simple truths that all hunters knew: demons cannot be trusted, demons lie, and anyone who thinks otherwise is an idjit.

But Crowley…

There is something different about her, if you ask Bobby. Doesn’t mean he trusts her farther than he can spit, but it’s interesting to consider, really.

Sure, he may look like some clueless hillbilly hick, but he’s far more observant and clever than people give him credit for. He likes to notice the small things, the details, the patterns—especially those in people.

The Queen of the Crossroads contradicts every pattern of behavior he’s noticed in demons. Most, once they’re known as demons, go for the kill or try to impress upon others how strong and capable they are—but Crowley is one for pleasantries and chit-chat, all easy smiles and quick wit as she engages people in conversation. She nearly acts human—she curbs the bloodlust, speaks of logic and reason, even seems capable of empathy. She seems friendly, likable, funny.

Sure, she acts out of self-preservation, but she’s upfront and honest about it, quick to let you know and careful to ensure you’re fully aware of it. She doesn’t try to claim they’re friends, that she’s good, or that she’s trying to act by compassion or such soppy sentiments.

She’s Queen of the Crossroads for obvious reasons. She’s a saleswoman, shrewd and calculating, a fierce negotiator. It’s easy to imagine her showing up at a crossroads and tricking some poor shmuck into a terrible deal—she’s got a charisma to her, a personable and humorous manner that makes it easy to like and trust her.

Demons, when they’re scheming—they lie, they twist words and warp perceptions. Crowley, when she speaks, it’s with truths. Okay, sometimes, it’s not the complete truth, or it’s a filtered version of the truth, but…she doesn’t lie.

It’s disconcerting. It’s disarming.

It’s brilliant.

Bobby knows that he doesn’t really know Crowley at all. All he knows of her is a carefully constructed image, a front used for manipulating their perception of her. Her humor and jokes, that constant provoking of friendly annoyance—it makes it hard to take her seriously as an enemy.

He doesn’t really know her at all.

But he can figure some things out from what he does know: she’s brilliant, she’s manipulative, she’s a smartass, and she’s not like the everyday black-eyed, stupid, cannon-fodder demon.

The emotional scenes before their last-ditch attempt at stopping the apocalypse offer some insight, too. In all his years, he has never seen a demon cry—or sob—or mourn—or go catatonic. Never anything like that.

The hunter still doesn’t know what to make of it.

Despite of all of this thought about Crowley and her motivations…well. Somehow, the hunter kinda likes her anyways.

It hurts to think about it, but…she reminds him of Karen in some small way. His wife had been a spitfire. Sure, she’d been a sweetheart, kind and caring. But she had a temper, too—a damn scary one, if he’s honest. In those moments, she had a razor wit sharper than a butcher knife. Like Crowley in that way.

But that line of thought hurts too much and he quickly returns to the task at hand.

* * *

 

“ _Crowley’s name!_ ” Bobby shouts.

“Okay!” she screams. “Okay. MacLeod. Fiona MacLeod, I swear—we call her Lucky the Leprechaun behind her back!”

* * *

 

“…Bottom line is, you get bubkis. Are we _done_?” she groans, rubbing her forehead.

 _Of course_ Bobby Singer would summon her while she was drunk.

“Just gettin’ started,” he grunts and the spectral figure of a disheveled young man appears.

She stares at the ghost before looking back to Bobby. “Erm. Am I supposed to recognise him?”

“Don’t remember your own son, bitch?” Bobby snarls. The demon’s face brightens with glee and she cackles. “What’s so funny?” the hunter demands.

The ghost speaks up. “That’s not my mother.” He sounds immensely confused and vanishes without another word.

Crowley sneers condescendingly. “Bingo. Good _God_ , Bobby dear. You fell for that ol’ bluff I told my underlings? _Fiona MacLeod_ —as if. What, did you plan on burning my wittle bones?”

“Don’t try to con me, _Fiona_. You may be Queen of the dirtbags, but in life you were nothing but a two-bit tailor’s wife who sold her soul in exchange for a pretty face and body.”

“Oh, you think I’m pretty, Bobby?” she bats her eyelashes in mock-flirtation. “I’m _flattered_. Really, I am. But that wasn’t my son—I never had a son, nor any children at all, thank _God_. And I certainly was never married—much less to a _tailor_.”

Well, there was that one time in Budapest with Zira…but that was an accidental event and was never official. Besides, Singer doesn’t need to know that.

The hunter glowers, trying to call her bluff. “Very funny. Well, now I know where you’re planted. Here.” He tosses his phone to her and she isn’t really surprised to hear Dean greet her, “ _Hiya Crowley._ ”

“Dean,” she purrs coolly. “Been a long time, we should get together. Maybe have a few drinks sometime, catch up, hook up, you know.”

“ _Yeah, right, we’ll have to do that after I get back,_ ” he informs her smugly.

She pauses, curious. Okay, she’ll bite. “Back?”

His smug arrogance is audible, making her want to gag. “ _Yeah, me and Sam, we’ve gone international. In fact, we’re in your neck of the woods._ ”

Unable to hold back a smirk, she chuckles darkly. “What’s the game, Squirrel?”

“ _Dominoes. In fact, we just dug yours up._ ”

She turns to Bobby, swaying slightly. “This is rid-ridikulus- _ridiculous_. The whole burning bones thing is a bloody myth.” Well, not really, but it doesn’t matter in her case.

“I know an employee of yours who’d disagree.”

Ah. “So tha’s where she got to.”

Bobby scoffs. “You demons think you’re something special…but you’re just spirits. Twisted, perverted, evil spirits. But…at the end of the day, you’re nothing but ghosts with an ego.”

She smiles in eager anticipation. “Lemme guess. My bones for your soul, right, Bobby-dearie?”

“Right in one,” he mutters. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Oh, this is just _too_ good. “Tell you what,” Crowley grins and giggles a bit, unexpectedly mirthful at his idiocy (okay, so the Craig helped). “Why don’t you do _me_ a flav- _favor_ and get rid of those old relics for me? Go ahead. _Burn_ _them_. See what it does.”

For a moment, there’s only static-filled silence from the other end of the line. She tosses the phone to Bobby. “ _Go ahead_ ,” she sings tauntingly, pitch wobbling.

“Do it,” he eventually grunts lowly and she can hear the click of a lighter and a whoosh of flames from the mobile.

Bobby stares in horrified silence. She twirls, stumbling only a tiny bit thanks to the Craig. “ _Ta da-ah_ ,” she sing-songs, bowing grandiosely. “Told you so, my darling dear.”

Oh, his expression—it’s just too much. And she can’t resist temptation. With a snap of her fingers, the Winchesters appear beside him and their faces warp to that of horror and disbelief.

The Queen of Hell cackles. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. Really. Did you really think that would work? _Oh pur-lease_.”

They stare in abject horror, their plan foiled.

She sighs. “Tell you want, Bobby sweetheart. I-I’m feeling… _generous_ , so I’m going to offer you a chance to get your soul.”

Wait, this was _not_ the plan.

“What d’ya want?” he grunts, eyeing her warily.

She wobbles and steadies herself by readying out to the wall, holding out a hand to ask them for a moment. The alcohol evaporates from her system, sending a shudder through her body until she straightens and sighs.

At this point…who gives a fuck about his soul? It doesn’t really matter anymore.

“Well I hope you realize you just cost me the product of four hours of drinking, _thanks_. But…” She hums, studying the trio. “Tell you what, Bobby. As a gift from me, the newly-crowned Queen of Hell, to…what did you call yourselves? _Team Free Will?_ Ah, yes, that’s it. Well, here’s my proposal. I’ll return your soul to you now, today, in mint condition—and I’ll even allow you to keep use of your legs. How’s that sound?”

“In exchange for _what_?”

Crowley smirks coldly. “You have to kiss me again—like you mean it, darling, or no deal.”

“What, you don’t have any underlings just dying to cozy up to the Queen?”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of them. It’s not about the kiss, dearie. It’s power play. It killed you to seal our initial deal, just think of doing it again in front of your boys.”

Said boys grimace and Bobby glares. “You rotten bitch,” he seethes.

“Going once…” she replies flatly.

“Fine!” he spits.

Faint amusement curls her crimson lips. “Come here, then. Pucker up, darling.”

He hesitantly goes to the edge of the devil’s trap and she sighs. “Honestly,” the demon mutters, grabbing his shirtfront and pulling him against her.

Their mouths clash together, and she reaches around to the back of his neck to pull him in closer. “Like you mean it,” she mutters into the kiss and it causes him to surge forward with bruising force. Caught by surprise, she stumbles backwards to the edge of the devil’s trap against the wall. He’s got a hand in her hair, ruining the neat bun she’d styled earlier, tugging at the curls, and she groans when she feels him groping her arse again.

She presses against him, shoves her breasts against his chest, and curls a leg around his hips, grinding against him. Slipping a hand under his shirt, she rakes her red manicured nails down his back and he groans.

When he rubs his hardness against her, layers of clothing separating them, she tosses her head back against the wall and cries out. Quickly, her neck is attacked by his mouth, both suction and teeth being used to surely leave a mark. As soon as his mouth leaves her neck, he’s gone, shoving himself away.

The Queen of Hell is left gasping for air as she leans on the wall for support. Her bottom lip is split and bleeding, lipstick smeared everywhere around her mouth and his.

One hand wanders to her neck, to the spot she’d inevitably have a large purple bruise, likely with teeth marks. “My, Bobby. I didn’t realize you were so…possessive, really. Marking me? How…exciting.”

“Payback for last time. Now gimme back my soul, Crowley,” the hunter growls at her, once again outside the devil’s trap.

She laughs—a breathless sound—as she observes him: shirt rucked up, hat knocked off, face red with arousal, lips bruised. It gets even better when her eyes travel to the boys, still frozen in place, staring in confused disgust.

“Ever want to blow off some steam, Bobby, give me a call, no strings attached,” she winks smugly. “I get the feeling you’d be an animal in bed.”

His glare doesn’t waver. “My soul, Crowley. _Now._ ”

“Give me a moment to catch my breath, jeez,” she wheezes and straightens. “Can’t just fire a girl up like that and leave her hanging. Especially not when you’re asking for something after.”

“I’m warning you,” he snaps testily.

Sighing, the Queen of Hell glares. “Fine, fine. Here.” With a wave of her hand, the contract is dismissed and his soul has been returned. “Now, I believe it’s your turn?”

He glares but breaks the devil’s trap.

Crowley smiles. “Pleasure doing business with you, as always. Think on my offer, darling!”

With that she saunters past with a swing to her hips before she vanishes.

“I need a drink,” Bobby mutters.

“Yeah, well. You’re not the only one,” Dean replies.

* * *

 

With that settled, she is no longer bothered by those buffoons and so she is free to pursue her plans for Purgatory. Which means she gets to watch Samuel and his unwitting grandsons hunt down Alphas for her.

Castiel is distant, of course, but responds when she summons him. Not ignoring her, just a bit…passive aggressive in light of her machinations. Crowley allows it, not bothered by his petulance, and makes no mention of it. As always, she knows when to pick her battles.

For now, she’s going to enjoy the Winchesters’ ignorance. It’s always so entertaining to watch.

* * *

 

She isn’t surprised when the Winchesters crash the interrogation of the Alpha vampire, just in time for things to get royally fucked up. In the end, it’s alright and her demons re-capture the escaped Alpha quickly. She watches from above as the scene plays out and, in the stunned silence afterwards, applauds their stupidity. “Well,” she purrs. “That was…dramatic.”

Glaring, Sam steps forward. “Crowley.”

“Hello, boys,” the Queen replies, smiling widely. “What an…unexpected _treat_.”

Their grandfather interrupts. “Bring Christian back now,” he demands, as if he had any power there.

“I’m sorry?” she asks, confused, pausing on her way down the stairs.

“My nephew—the one you just crammed a demon into!” he shouts furiously, veins bulging in his bald head.

Laughing, she shrugs and flaps her hand dismissively. “Oh, him—I had him possessed _ages_ ago. Samuel, really. What did you expect? I keep an eye on my investments.”

Of course, Squirrel has to state the obvious. “Woah, woah, woah—you two know each other?!”

“Not in the biblical sense,” Crowley giggles girlishly. “More of a…business relationship, I’d say.”

Sam stills in understanding. “You’re Crowley’s bitch.”

God, she just _loves_ their moments of epiphany and realization. It’s too precious when they realize their own blindness and folly—and it’s even more amusing to watch than their ignorance.

“It—it’s not what you think—”

“No, it’s precisely what you think,” the demon cuts in sharply. “And well phrased, Sam, really. That Alpha he’s caught me is getting him a gold star. Isn’t that right, dearie?”

Dean shifts his weight. “Since when do you give a crap about vampires?”

She turns to him and regards him coolly. “Since…hmm, what’s today? Tuesday?” she pauses, running a finger up his chest. “Since…let’s see, _mind your own business_.” To emphasize her point, as if to put a physical grammatical mark, she pokes him right above the anti-possession tattoo. It makes him stumble back a step.

“You may as well share with the class, we know you’re looking for Purgatory.”

She turns to face the Moose. “So you heard about that,” she murmurs, pretending to be impressed, as if it’s a brilliant discovery.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna tell us why?”

Crowley snorts dismissively. “Isn’t it obvious? Location, location, location. I’m a developer. Purgatory is vast, underutilized, and hell-adjacent, and I want it.”

“What for?” Dean demands, frank as ever.

“Best shut your gob,” she warns lightly.

He glares. “Why?”

“Don’t question management.”

“We ain’t your employees!” he shouts.

And isn’t that adorable. They don’t even understand the situation they’re in. “Of course you are, don’t be stupid,” she scolds. “Have been for some time now, thanks to gramps. I don’t exactly keep Captain Chromedome around for his wit, do I? Hint, hint—he’s not a gigolo either,” she sneers towards the man, who glares at the implication.

“What? It’s true, isn’t it? I don’t keep you around as eye-candy, sugar. I’ve got others for that,” she purrs and winks at the brothers before explaining, “Samuel knows things. More than any of you, actually. Walking encyclopedia of the creepy and crawly. And I knew you two are so hung up on that…family loyalty nonsense…he said jump, you’d get all froggy.”

The brothers share a glance. “Yeah, well, game’s over,” Dean snaps.

“Yeah, well, afraid not,” she shoots back coldly and examines her manicured black nails casually. “Not if you wanna see Sam’s soul ever again.”

“…You’re bluffing,” the soulless wonder tries.

She, in fact, _is_ , but she has no intention of informing them of that fact. “Tell them, Samuel,” she instructs sharply instead, not looking up from her nails.

Their grandfather sighs in defeat. “She brought us both back, me and Sam.”

“Wait. You knew?” Sam glares in disbelief.

“No,” Dean interrupts, persistent in his distrust of her, glaring “Cas said it takes big-time mojo to pull that off. And you’re nothin’ but a punk-ass crossroads demon.”

She sniffs, offended. “ _Was_ a punk-ass crossroads demon. _Now_ —Queen of Hell. Believe me, I’ve got the mojo—and all of Hell at my command. I snap my fingers, Sam gets his soul back. _Or_ , you can be…well, _you_ and I shove Sam right back in the hole. Can’t imagine what it’s like in there,” she murmurs, running a hand down Sam’s cheek as he glares. “And…I can imagine _so_ _very_ many things…”

Her voice deepens, husky and salacious, and she pats his cheek with a conquering smirk. “So, are we clear? Me Charlie, you angels. Job’s simple enough: bring me creatures. Aim high on the food chain, please. Everybody wins.”

And oh, how sweet their submission is. The looks on their faces when they _know_ they have no choice but to obey her. “Well, pleasure. See you soon,” she blows a kiss to the group of hunters and vanishes.

Victory is sweet upon her tongue, but the taste is soon drowned out by the burn of her whisky.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Winchesters. Oblivious as ever and playing right into her hands. And dear Castiel, paving his very own road to hell with good intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings & Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Rough/Angry Sex, Dirty Talk, (Off-screen) Violence toward Children, Aftermath of Torture/Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Canon-Typical Violence.

She glares. “You like pain, Sam? You like  _hell_ ?” she snarls and glares at Dean. “You need to stop thinking of this as some kind of deal. This is a  _hostage_ situation, you arrogant little thug—I  _own_ your brother. Do you understand me?”

 

Sam sans his soul is, frankly, terrifying. All the cunning and dedication and purpose, none of the emotions, morals, or compunctions. Vicious and cruel and cold. Nearly animalistic in following his instincts.

She finds ways to manipulate him too.

* * *

 

“Hello, Sam,” Crowley murmurs in greeting as she slides onto the bar stool beside his.

He regards her, unconcerned. “What do you want, Crowley?” he asks, bored.

“You seemed lonely, Moose,” she replies easily, leaning forward. “Dean’s off banging that waitress, yeah? Leaving you all alone. I thought I’d save you the trouble of hiring that hooker over there.”

The demon is certainly dressed like one though: denim bustier that shoves her generous breasts up, skinny jeans that outline every full curve, and crimson stiletto heels. Her hair is loose, flowing down her back in loose curls.

Sam laughs, taking a sip of his beer. “Seriously?”

She grins, curling a hand over his arm, stroking the strong muscles with delicate touches. “Consider this…your employee of the month bonus,” she replies smoothly. “A reward for bringing me that vamp yesterday. And besides, I believe soulless Sam would be one _hell_ of a fuck.”

Her words make an amused, predatory grin come to his face as he leans forward. “I think that phrase would be better suited to you,” he replies into her ear. “ _My Queen_.” His voice goes straight to her core.

“Well,” she replies with a salacious smirk as she toys with the collar of his shirt. “Where’s your motel?”

* * *

 

The door slams shut behind them, with Crowley’s back being pressed against it as Sam leans down to plunder her mouth. _Not waiting any time, is he_ , the demon thinks wry as she curls a leg around his hips. Thankfully, to the relief of her toes and neck, he takes the hint and wraps his arms about her waist and arse to pull her up closer to him. Which was seriously a relief, considering even in those heels, she was only standing at five-five, so her legs circle his hips, grinding herself against the growing bulge in his trousers.

God, if this isn’t the hottest snog she’d had in years. She had expected that Sam would be rough, but she had not quite predicted this pressing dominance. And there was no question about that; Sam was fighting her for control, pinning her to the door with his superior height, fingers digging into her hips and arse.

Crowley was never one to go down without a fight. She gives as good as she gets, biting his bottom lip sharply as she rakes her manicured nails through his hair, digging into his scalp. She breaks the kiss to attack his neck, nip his pulse point, and sink her teeth into his shoulder.

“ _Fuck_ , Crowley,” Sam growls into her ear: a warning.

She releases his flesh to smirk at him. “You want to fuck a demon, Sam?” Crowley allows her eyes to flash red. “You’re getting one.”

In lieu of a response, he turns and tosses her onto the bed. “Good,” he replies eagerly, climbing atop her, eyes traveling along her generous curves. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for,” Sam adds, flicking out a knife from his pocket. She watches calmly and laughs when he uses it to slice the denim of her bustier, revealing the luscious weight of her breasts to him.

His mouth is on them instantly, taking a nipple into his mouth roughly and began sucking upon it, as he tosses the knife away, and she laughs at his lust. “Hardly even, now is it,” she comments lightly and flicks her hand, making layers of plaid vanish.

“That’s better,” Crowley grins, admiring the sight of his muscled torso.

She can’t resist the temptation to rake her nails down his back, leaving scratch marks as he leaves bruises scattered across her chest, until the hunter catches her wrists and pins them to the mattress above her head.

“ _Moose_ ,” she growls, eyes flashing crimson once more.

He releases her puckered nipple to laugh. “Demon,” he responds haughtily, unfazed by her warning, and laughs as she squirms, bucking her hips up against him. “You know, you’ve always such a smug little bitch. I think you just need a good hard fuck to loosen up.

“Oh, the things I’ll do,” the hunter mutters darkly. “I’ll fuck you into next week, until you’re begging on your knees for me. Until you’ve come so much you can’t think of anything but my cock and how _I_ made you scream for it.”

Her eyebrows rise in challenge. “Oh, yeah?” she purrs. “Then show me what you’ve got.” With that, the rest of their clothes vanish and he seizes the chance. His fingers curl around her outer lips and stroke the wetness there.

“Someone’s excited.”

Laughing, she bucks her hips up to grind against his swollen member. “I’m certainly not the only one, sweetheart.”

Sam’s fingers did not linger long, merely stretching her out quickly, pumping hard, before pulling out to rub his hard erection against her clit, which makes a high-pitched moan escape her.

“So wet and desperate, aren’t you?” he laughs and thrust in harshly. This time, he groans as her tight heat envelops him.

For a few thrusts, she allows him to continue his imagined control. He may have an advantage with his immense height, but she has an advantage everywhere else—strength, stamina, flexibility, speed. It’s child’s play to break his hold on her wrists, flip them over, and straddle him calmly.

“Did you really think it was that easy?” she laughs and leans down to nibble at his neck and shoulders. “Darling, _I’m the Queen of Hell_.”

Watching his snarl, Crowley slides down onto his cock and while he’s pinned to the mattress with barely a flicker of her concentration. “Ah, ah, ah—no touching until I say so, big boy,” she snaps and tightens around him, causing him to gasp loudly.

“ _Bitch_ ,” he growls.

She tuts. “Really, Sam. You know my name. You want to touch? You use my name and ask nicely.”

Determined not to concede to her, the hunter remains silent for several thrusts as she rides him fiercely, but his pride only lasts so long. “Damn it— _Crowley_.”

Said demon leans down, breasts nearly shoved in his face as she whispers into his ear, “Ask nicely.”

“ _Crowley—let me touch you, now!_ ” he roars.

She shrugs. “Good enough, I suppose,” Crowley allows and releases him.

Quickly, he’s surging up against her, trying to flip them over again. The struggle continues until they slip from the bed to the floor with a thud and she allows him to straddle her on the rough carpet.

 _Gigantor_ she’s called him in the past, making fun of his height. Well his height wasn’t the only giant thing about him, she had learned—he was quite proportional and _oh_. His cock fills her up so snugly as he pounds into her.

“Oh, Sammy, shoulda fucked you sooner,” she laughs breathlessly.

He laughs arrogantly, shoving deeper into her folds. “Knew you were just a horny…little…demon, just desperate for a nice big cock. Knew it. Just a demonic slut—”

Crowley snarls, eyes red once more. “Well, just wait, Sam,” she purrs fiercely and clenches down on him. “’Cause I’m going to make you _scream_ for me, my name— _Crowley_ —you’re going to be screaming for your _Queen_.”

* * *

 

The next morning, they’re just recovering from a vigorous bout of shower sex when the motel room door opens.

“…kay, Sammy, I’ve got a lead on that—” Dean gapes in horror. “Oh, _come on!_ Dude, I could hear that you got lucky last night—but _really?_ ”

Crowley laughs, still wrapped in a towel as she dries her hair. Sam is half dressed at this point, grabbing his shirt from the floor, unfazed by his brother’s arrival. “I figured she’d be a good fuck and I was right,” he shrugs, indifferent to his brother’s disgust.

“But, of all people— _Crowley?_ ”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear him screaming my name last night,” she comments slyly.

The hunter grimaces. “I just hoped I heard wrong and was having a sick, twisted dream.”

A sultry chuckle is her response as she drops the towel and stands right in front of him, enjoying the wide-eyed look as he takes in her naked body. “Dreaming about me, Squirrel?” she murmurs lowly. “Maybe next time I’ll find you at the bar instead, hmm?”

He groans in annoyance.

With a boisterous laugh, she dresses herself neatly in a skirt suit with a snap of her fingers. “Bye, darlings—keep up the good work!”

 

* * *

 

“I told you, I don’t know anything about—”

She slugs the shifter across the face with the bat, cracking its jaw.

“Sorry, but your exceptional good looks aren’t gonna buy you any mercy,” she scolds. “I suggest you talk…What should we use next? Speculum? Something more exotic?” she wiggles her eyebrows.

“Look,” the shifter snaps. “It’s _purgatory_ —all I know is that I go there when I die. It’s not like I can draw you a map.”

Crowley laughs harshly. “I happen to know you _can_ , darling.”

“You’re wrong.”

“My sources are unimpeachable. You’re the father of your entire species—you’re really not pulling off this dumb-blond act,” the demon replies coldly. “I hope you appreciate just how much effort I’ve gone through to find something that can _actually_ hurt you. Yeah,” she shrugs. “My tinkering has cost several lesser shifters their lives, but I enjoy a challenge.”

She raises a shining blade smugly. “Iridium—rarer than hell. Woulda been cheaper to drop a castle on you, but I think we all agree: worth it. So, you start talking, or I start chopping off all the bits that stick out.”

The Alpha sneers. “You go ahead, mate, see if it makes me—”

Okay then.

She shoves the blade into its chest, making it scream.

“What was that?” she asks with cruel sweetness, leaning in. “Purgatory’s where?”

Its response is to spit in her face. She wipes the bloody saliva off herself and rubs her hand clean on its jacket. “What _is it_ with you _animals_?” she growls and snatches the baby monitor, turning up the volume so it can hear the baby shifters screaming. “Did I tell you? This prison has a nursery—all yours. I know how much you _care_ about them. You spent months gathering them to your bosom.”

Oh, there’s nothing like a mother’s fury. Seeing it on her own face is odd, admittedly, but she relishes ire anyways. “Not so cocky now, are we?” she sneers frigidly. “Finding Purgatory is important to me. You have five seconds to tell me where it is. After that, I’ll fillet them in front of you, toss their spines in your lap. Four…three…two—”

“Kill them all,” the shifter snarls. “We’ll make more.”

Crowley laughs. “Bring ‘em in, boys. One at a time for me,” she yells down the corridor. Moments later, a demon enters carrying an infant.

“I already told you—I won’t tell you, no matter what you do to them!” the Alpha screams.

She takes the whimpering baby in her arms, cradling it easily as she sneers at the chained shifter. “You say that like it’s going to stop me,” she murmurs in analytic fascination. “Hmm. I already told you the consequences. Time to live with them.”

* * *

 

When she’s done, there are more than a dozen dead shifters around them on the floor, peeled skin and flesh scattered, their blood splattered upon both Crowley and the Alpha. Just as promised, their spinal cords are piled in its lap.

It is furious and horrified and anguished, bruised and bloody from struggling against the chains holding it.

“You know,” Crowley murmurs conversationally as she wipes her hands off on a towel, “You said you’d just make more. That’s fine. More for me to carve up. But no matter how many more you have…they won’t replace the ones you’ve lost,” she gestures flippantly at the small corpses around them and smiles at the devastation upon the Alpha’s face. “Hmm. Nothing sadder than losing your children, is there?”

“How would you know?” it screams. “You haven’t got a maternal bone in your body! I’m their mother, their father—I raised them all, I watched over them— _and you kill my children! Now my babies too?_ ”

Shrugging, Crowley sneers, “Well, I did warn you, darling.”

The Alpha snarls. “ _I’ll kill you when I get out of here, Crowley!_ ”

 “Oh, dearie. What makes you think you’ll get out of here?” She giggles childishly.

“I’ll _never_ tell you where Purgatory is!” it roars, face contorted with its desperate ire.

The demon smiles frigidly. “I know.” With a quick spin, she turns on her heel, plucks up a machete, and slices its head off, watching it roll to the floor curiously. “ _Oops_. Guess I lost my head.”

* * *

 

She knows, of course, when the Winchesters, their pet angel, and the bitch Meg break into his facility. Samuel warning her was naturally a pleasant surprise and she grins at their betrayed expressions after he banishes Castiel.

“Damn it, Samuel!” Dean shouts as demons seize them.

The Queen appears from behind their grandfather, a hand trailing over his stiffened shoulders. “Yes…” she purrs. “And I have to say, best purchase I’ve made since Dick Cheney.”

Dean glares. “Hiya Crowley. How’s tricks?”

“Above your pay grade,” she replies calmly. “Been working. Big things, you know. Alas, you’ll be too dead to participate.”

“Oh really?” he asks doubtfully, arrogant as ever.

“Shame I have to do away with you both,” she sighs, striding up to them. “Rather enjoyed your indentured servitude. And I’d just love to keep you around as my boy-toys but, oh well.” She grins vindictively.

 

Crowley doesn’t really expect them to remain contained nor to actually get killed. Fate has an annoying tendency to be on their side, so she doesn’t for a moment believe this to be the end of those denim and plaid-wrapped nightmares.

However, Meg is a surprise and she’s quite pleased when the rogue demoness is captured. Meg has been a pain in the arse for too long; some torture and a painful death would be well suited.

The fire alarm interrupts her chat with the djinn, and she is unsurprised to find the Winchesters to be behind it once more.

“You should be ghoul scat right now,” she greets Dean nastily, just as someone brains her with a wrench, sending her to the floor. She coughs as she stands, provoked. “Really necessary?” she growls to Sam while his brother produces the demon-killing knife, and she brushes the dirt from her suit. “Really—I just had this dry-cleaned.” A prickle of familiar magic makes her pause to glance above her at the ceiling and find a devil’s trap there.

“Rude,” she scowls. “Really, boys—if I were Doctor Lecter, you’d be dinner by now. So, to what do I owe the reach-around?”

Meg swaggers into the room smugly. “Crowley,” she says eagerly.

“Whore,” the Queen nods coolly.

The brunette demon glares. “Okay, you know what,” she growls and motions with her hand. Crowley doubles over, gagging on her own blood. “The best torturers never get their hands dirty—I thought Alastair taught you that a while ago,” she sneers, her grin snide.

Meg had been one of Alastair’s favorite ‘children’—one of his prodigy torturers. And she had gotten quite a lot of practice when the fallen angel was imprisoned in hell—

_—Meg’s cruel smirk upon her true visage in hell as she dug a hook through Crowley’s wings, stringing her up by them—_

_—the demon laughing as she sliced Crowley open with the skill of a surgeon as she carefully removed the fallen angel’s bones one by one until she was a sack of flesh and pain—_

_—her wings being hacked off with serrated blades in Alastair’s hands as he laughs. She screams herself hoarse, writhing, as Meg and others pin her down—_

“Get on with it,” she spits out, still coughing up blood, unimpressed and unafraid.

“Sam wants a word with you.”

Once the last of the blood is gone from her throat, she straightens. “What can I do for you, Sam?” she hisses, eyes flaring red in her impatient aggravation.

The Moose glares. “You know damn well. I want my soul back.”

Meg laughs. “And here I thought you just grew some balls, Sam.”

“Well, he’s certainly a lot more fun in the sack without it,” Crowley jeers, bloody lip curled.

Neither Winchester is amused, glaring at both of the demons. “Well?” Sam demands of her, eyes cold and hard.

She scoffs aloud. “No.”

“Meg,” Dean prompts.

This time, Crowley is sent to her knees, retching blood. Well, she certainly was a pupil of Alastair, anyone who knew Hell’s Grand Torturer can tell—even without Crowley’s firsthand accounts. “I can’t,” she admits crossly.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“ _I said can’t and I meant can’t, you mop-headed lumberjack!_ ” she screams and sits up. “I was lucky to get this much of you out. Going back for the sloppy bits? _No way_. I’m good…but those two in there? _Forget it_.”

Sam’s glare does not lessen. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t,” she snaps. “But it doesn’t change anything. I’m telling you. Sam, _why_ do you want the thing back? Satan’s got _one_ juicy source of entertainment in there. I’d swallow a pissed-on rag off a whore’s bathroom floor before I took that soul. Unless you _want_ to be a drooling mess.”

Meg scowls and reluctantly agrees. “Sam, I hate to say it, but she’s right—”

“Yeah, right, I get it, thanks,” the soulless wonder snaps and glances to their pet demon. “She’s all yours.”

His brother turns to him quickly. “Are you _crazy_? She’s our only hope!”

“Dean, you heard him. She can’t get it—she’s _useless_ ,” he glowers.

“I resent that,” she mutters, but Dean hands the demon-killing knife to Meg, who grins girlishly in excitement as she prowls forward, but pauses at the edge of the devil’s trap. “You’ll let me back out, right?”

Both nod, glaring at Crowley.

She steps forward. “This is for Lucifer, you pompous little bitch!” she snarls and shoves the demon-killing knife into Crowley’s chest, who merely glances down at it, unimpressed.

“You done?” she asks and swings a leg into Meg’s knees, sending her crashing to the floor while Crowley stands, plucks the blade from her chest and lobs it into the ceiling.

With the trap broken, she steps forward, glaring disdainfully at the brothers. “ _Oh_ , now that’s better,” she hisses and sends them flying into the wall as she pulls the knife back into her hand, threatening Meg with it easily. “You don’t know _torture_ , you little insect,” she growls, blood-tinged teeth bared as her lips curl in an ugly snarl, but she is interrupted by a flutter of wings.

Turning, Crowley finds Castiel before her. “Leave them alone.”

“Castiel,” she greets coolly. “Haven’t seen you all season. You the cavalry now, featherhead?”

“Put the knife down.”

She laughs. “You that bossy in Heaven? No wonder you’re losing out to Raphael. The whole affair makes Vietnam look like a brawl between ten year olds on the playground…Hey, what’s in the gift bag?”

The angel pulls out a skull. “You are,” he replies shortly.

 _Ah, that’s the plan, darling_ , she thinks in silent approval of his quick thinking. Crowley stills, as if trying to formulate the best way to save her skin. “That’s…not possible,” she breathes in disbelief. Were she human, she could win Oscars with acting skills like this.

“You didn’t hide your bones as well as you should have.”

She turns fully to face him and mock-applauds him with a visibly-forced smile. “Cookie for you, then, Cassie boy.”

Face cryptic as ever, Castiel drops the bag. “Can you restore Sam’s soul or not?” he demands flatly.

Reluctantly, Crowley drops the boys to the floor with a snap of her fingers. “If I can help out in _any_ other—”

“Answer him!” Dean shouts.

She wets her lips. “I can’t,” she admits quietly through clenched teeth.

And when Castiel sets the bag of bones ablaze, it’s too easy to make the illusion of her dying in an immediate bonfire, screaming.

Hmm. She’ll have to congratulate him on that back-up plan later. Gotta admit, there’s more to him than just those baby blues, handsome vessel, and trench coat.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Death...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mentioned Alcoholism, and terrible, terrible apathy.

There are many reasons she refuses to return Sam’s soul. The primary ones being that she would likely die in the attempt, and that there is only a minute chance that Sam would survive the return of his poor, mangled soul.

It isn’t worth the risk. For her or for Sam.

But the Winchesters…they worry her, in some ways. In a sense, she fears them, as much as she _could_ ever fear humans. With their souls intact, their co-dependency and loyalty, their absolute reckless righteousness, their to-the-death determination…it’s a recipe for disaster, almost as surely as Michael and Lucifer together. And that’s with their souls present and more or less whole.

Without a soul? Well. That’s almost terrifying. Same drive, same dedication, same haste—but without any humanizing emotion, mercy, or ethics. Sam, sans his soul, is terrifying, despite that she has him under her thumb.

It’s no question that she will keep an eye on him, for fear of him doing something…terrible.

She watches as he prepares to kill Bobby, and speeds up Dean’s arrival so he saves the old man.

(She won’t allow herself to think about why she helps him.)

* * *

 

Later, she hovers outside the panic room as they watch Death return Sam’s soul, reluctant to be anywhere near the risky operation, never mind the fact that Death would surely have words for her if he saw her.

Despite her efforts to remain unnoticed, he sees her once he’s finished.

“He’ll sleep for a while, leave him be,” he advises Dean before he turns to her.

 _I’ll speak with you outside_ , he tells her silently, in a voice only she can hear.

She nods slowly and departs to the porch, where they are unseen by humans. The Horseman follows and studies her silently, making the demon fidget. “I thought you wanted to speak with me, not stare at me all day,” she comments lightly.

His eyebrows rise at her flippancy. “It’s been a long time. You’ve changed.”

“Fifteen years or so,” she mutters, avoiding his gaze. “Haven’t changed my appearance.”

He hums. “I was not referring to your corporeal form, as you well know,” he scolds lightly.

“Yes, well…things happen. Life goes on, even for a demon,” she shrugs. “What did you wish to speak of?”

Death watches her with dark eyes and a piercing gaze. Uncomfortable, she looks away, staring out over the salvage yard. “You are unlike all of the Fallen and the demons, you know. Quite singular, you are. Even before your recent…promotion.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

“I know what you are planning, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoes plainly and chuckles. “I expected nothing less. Are you going to tell me to stop?”

“I doubt you would heed any warning of mine,” he snorts to himself.

She turns back to face the Horseman. “On the contrary. You are one of the few beings whose warnings I would heed.”

“Truly? Interesting,” he murmurs slowly. “But no, I am merely advising you…you must be sure you wish to do this. The consequences will be…severe, for all involved, if you find it.”

The demon nods. “I know. But I must. Unless…” her voice fades momentarily and her head whips around to face him again. “You know. You can tell me what happened to Aziraphale.”

He tuts quietly. “You know very well that there is only so much I can interfere with. I have nearly done too much as it is. I can do no more. If I could, I would. Were it were in my hands, I would help you—you of all people, you most of all. But I cannot. You know very well the natural order and balance of things; even I am subject to its laws. I’m sorry, Sariel.”

She stiffens at the name, looking away tearfully as she sits on the rail of the porch. “I haven’t been called that in millennia. It’s not my name anymore.”

“Just because you haven’t been called Sariel in ages does not mean you are not Sariel at heart.”

“No,” she whispers, eyes tightly closed. “Sariel _died_. She’s dead. She died when I fell. No one can make me who I once was. I am too damaged, too broken, to ever be that which I once was.”

For a moment—just a moment—she thinks she remembers a bit of that life—of being Sariel. Having this protective love for her siblings that shone through her cool façade and sharp tongue. The joy of being a sister, a mentor, a teacher. The utter contentment that filled her then, when she had everything…

But just as she thinks she grasps the memory, it slips away like a bird, taking flight away from her.

“Do you even remember who you were when you were Sariel?” he asks curiously. “Do you remember anything of that life?”

She hesitates visibly. “Very little. There are flashes of memories, mere moments—images—of a few of my brothers and sisters. Nothing substantial,” she shakes her head bitterly. “Not even what caused my fall.”

For a long minute, the Horseman watches her silently with piercing eyes, as if studying her down to her very Grace. “That which is lost may not always be so, Sariel. Remember that.”

Reluctantly, she nods. “Anything else?”

“The attempts at the apocalypse thus far may be ended, but they were merely battles in the grand scheme of things. The war is not over. Prepare yourself for it—yourself and all your allies. You will need them.”

Crowley hesitates, lips pursed in indecision before she sighs. “…Death?”

“Yes?”

“Why was I brought back after Lucifer killed me? Did you do it?”

He smiles secretively. “You were brought back because your chapter is not yet finished in this story. You will be needed soon. But…no, it was not I.”

“Then…was…was it Him? Really?”

Death chuckles. “I have had many conversations with your Father over the years about you and Aziraphale. The two of you drew our attention from the very beginning, even before you fell—though afterwards we realized how singular your relationship was.”

“You—and He discussed us?” she stammers.

“Oh yes, many times, as I said. He is rather fond of you both, you know. Aziraphale, one of the few angels who remembered their mission, who never sought to harm his siblings, who came to love someone all his siblings would sooner have killed. And you, the Fallen angel who caused the downfall of paradise, who can be thanked for the world that exists today, who fell in love with an angel, despite him being the Enemy. Oh yes, both of you are very special to Him.”

This she cannot comprehend. “But…I’m…I fell. I disobeyed. I _fell_ —how can my Father be fond of me still?!”

“God did not make you fall. It was Michael who punished you for your disobedience. God had naught to do with the decision. And as you once told your angel, falling does not innately change one to become evil. So yes, He is fond of you still. Before you ask…just because He is not in Heaven does not mean He is unaware of what occurs there or anywhere else. He watches to this day. Do not yet give up hope, Sariel.”

Something calms in the back of her mind. “Thank you, Death.”

He smiles. “Now, I must take my leave. I shall not see you for quite some time. Take care and remember what I have said, Sariel.”

She blinks and he has vanished.

Death has always mystified her. He was an intimidating figure, to be certain, but he was always…well, cordial with Crowley—as if, indeed, fond of her. He regards humans as a brief, short-lived, arrogant curiosities, but he respects them. She, however, he seems to see as closer to an equal (not really an equal, but certainly closer than humanity). More than an uppity amoeba.

Kind, polite—he’s always treated her as such. She’s not sure what she’s done to deserve his regard, but she won’t argue with it. He’s a valuable friend to have, even for the Queen of Hell.

A strange friend, of course but…

She pauses, brow wrinkling, as she wonders about his life. How lonely it must be. To be surrounded by millions of tiny, short blips of light who will vanish so quickly. Even angels and demons will die eventually. Even his reapers, his ‘children’, his adopted souls. Even God.

Isn’t that a strange thought—that only Death will live forever.

Because he doesn’t really have a choice. Death he may be, but he is still subject to the natural order. He can’t change it, not really. He can’t save people, can’t choose to spare them, without terrible consequences resulting.

Free will may exist for humanity, but there is only so much in the lives of those such as angels, demons, and, apparently, Death.

To exist since the beginning of life, the beginning of consciousness. What he could remember… That’s an interesting question. Just how many stories could he tell? How many worlds, races, gods, and apocalypses has he known? What does he remember?

What has he forgotten?

A chill chases down her spine with a shudder, and she draws her knees to her chest, wrapping an arm about them as she remains carefully balanced on the rail, leaning against a post.

Suddenly, she is terribly grateful to only be a fallen angel. She can’t imagine such an existence.

She stares at the stars, at the night sky. So terribly different from the last time she’d watched the stars. So many are hidden by the air and light of civilization. Some have appeared, but… So many have gone out.

Looking out over the points of light in the sky, she wonders how many are already dead, their light outlasting them as it shines out through space, even when the stars themselves have long since gone out.

Crowley decides she doesn’t want to know.

* * *

 

Originally, she did not intend on roping Heaven into her scheme. She didn’t set out to incite the heavenly civil war by her own machinations and persuasions.

Crowley only meant to get the souls in Purgatory to keep her hold on the throne and to use the juice to search for Aziraphale.

But she’s an opportunist, though.

Heaven is ripping itself apart. Angels divided, brother against brother, fighting occurring daily. In the void left by Michael’s absence—Michael, who controlled Heaven with an iron fist, who held every bit of authority possible up there, who is gone—in his wake, no one was prepared to take over for him.

The thought that he would be incapacitated was…well, it had never occurred to the feathered dunces up there. Raphael, loyal to Michael to a fault, arrogant in his belief of his brother…it is no surprise that he has stepped forward to continue Michael’s plan—to spur on the apocalypse. He’d uses Heaven’s power to bust open the Cage, to release Lucifer and Michael, to allow their legendary, fated battle to commence and destroy earth.

But he doesn’t have the natural authority and charisma to be a true leader, not really. Angels questioned him, doubted, were unsure—especially when the book’s ending was suddenly ripped up. They are confused and lost.

Castiel is an admirable figure—strong and determined, likeable and beloved by their Father, moral and humble. It’s easy to see why angels would be swayed into following him, though many doubted his ability to hold against the archangel.

If this war continues for much longer…who knows the damage that would be done upstairs by the time it is done.

Somehow, Crowley doesn’t really care.

If some small part of her does or did, she drowns and loses it in Glencraig. 

* * *

 

“ _You?_   No,” Eve scoffs. “It’s Crowley I want dead.”

The brothers exchange a glance. “Well, you’re too late there,” the elder replies easily. “That little limey skank roasted months ago.”

She smiles in condescension. “Crowley’s alive.”

“That’s impossible,” Sam disagrees immediately.

The mother of all monsters scoffs audibly. “I see her face through the eyes of every child she strings up and skins. Including fifteen shifter infants in one day, a few months ago—filleted and tortured before one of my firstborn. Any idea _why_ she’s hurting my babies?”

Both hunters’ eyes widen at the news of the carnage Crowley is willing to commit in order to get what she wants. They couldn’t claim surprise, not really, but even for Crowley…fifteen filleted infants is a bit unexpected.

“She wants Purgatory, right? Location, location, location and all that.”

The Mother of All chuckles, amused. “Is _that_   what she told you? It’s about the _souls_.”

“What about them?”

“They’re power, you simple little monkey,” Eve snaps impatiently. “Fuel. Each soul a beautiful, little nuclear reactor. Put them together, you have the sun. Now, think what the Queen of Hell could do with that vast, untapped oil well. How powerful she’d be. Now Crowley wants to siphon off my supply and _torture_ my children to do it?

“Okay, fine. I’ll quit playing nice. I’ll turn you all—every soul: mine. Let’s see how hot her Hell burns when everyone comes to me.” Eve shrugs, casual and at ease with her plans. “She asked for it.”

“You know, last I checked, there are a few billion of us,” Dean comments. “That plan might take a while.”

Turning, she crosses her arms. “What d’you think I’m doing here? I’m building the perfect beast.”

Sam straightens in realization. “Wait. All those—all those _things_ we’ve been finding.”

She shrugs. “Call it beta testing.”

“Well, I think your formula might be a little off,” Dean snipes. “They’re imploding all over town.”

Eve nods knowingly. “Well, there were a few unfortunate failures. But I eventually got it right. Quiet, smart, inconspicuous. It can spread through a whole town in under a day. Oh—and the best part, you’ve been with it the whole time!” she grins proudly.

“What?” Dean mutters in disbelief.

“Yes, you were the final test—I had to see if it could slip past hunters undetected, of course. Little Ryan.” She pauses, watching their faces fall. “You look upset. If it makes you feel any better, Ryan was bound to work on you…little wayward orphan, like yourselves. There’s nothing you can do about it now. So let’s talk.”

Sam shakes his head stonily. “Nothin’ to say.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I have an offer to propose. Crowley, as you know, not so easy to find. So, here’s the deal: you find her, bring her to me…I let you live.”

“Pass.”

* * *

 

“Really, Cas, this is getting ridiculous.”

Livid, he turns to face the Queen of Hell, who is leaning against the diner’s counter calmly, standing amongst the bodies. The blood on the floor is pooled around the bodies, but she stands in sharp black stilettos amongst it all, pristine and untouched by the carnage surrounding her.

“How many times am I going to have to clean up your messes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the big things about Crowley at this point is that she is consumed by apathy. She drowns out any emotion or morals just to ignore the grief. She's locking it all away, trying to be coldly focused upon Purgatory.   
> And personally, I don't think the proverbial road to hell isn't paved with good intentions. It's paved by apathy.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Mutilation of a Corpse, Violence, Implied Torture, Manipulation, and Betrayal.
> 
> I'm in a celebratory mood, my dears. You see, I auditioned last week for my university theatre's first show and I GOT THE FEMALE LEAD. (Alice Sycamore in "You Can't Take It With You") This is remarkable considering this is my third audition and second show with them.   
> (Funny story - the guy who played my husband in the last play is now playing my fiance. LOL)  
> But yeah, so I'm incredibly excited and, as such, I thought I would update a day early. :)

He finds her dissecting Eve’s corpse. “Howdy, partner,” she says to him pleasantly, as if she didn’t have her hands inside the abdomen of a cadaver, fingers twisted around and between various organs.

“What have you found?” Castiel asks, straight to business as always.

Crowley grins. “Found a lot of things, really. For example—Eve’s brain, dead as a tin kipper. And yet—“ she pauses to grab a handful of multicolored, marble-sized eggs. “For some reason, she keeps producing eggs. Fascinating isn’t it? Oh, and watch _this!_ ” she adds excitedly, like a child, and drops the eggs so she can grab a metal spike, eying the chained up vampire in the corner eagerly. When she shoves the spike to Eve’s exposed brain, the vamp howls in agony, shaking and writhing in its cage. “Chocula here feels _every_ little tickle.”

The angel is unimpressed. “What is that good for?”

“Well, apart from the obvious erotic value, you’ve got me,” she shrugs indifferently and gives the spike a twist before ripping it out.

“You said Eve could open the door to Purgatory,” Castiel growls, piqued.

Crowley smiles, taking off her bloody apron. “Correct. I did. And I’m confident she could have _if she was still alive!_ ” she screams, balling up and throwing the apron to the floor. “Best chance to get over the rainbow and the Winchesters _killed her!_ ”

He turns away to inspect the vampire, avoiding her accusing, knowing eyes. “It was unavoidable.”

“Bullshit,” the Queen barks flatly. “You fucked up, Cas. _You_ let the hounds mangle the pheasant and now I am up to my elbows in it— _literally!_ ”

“What is your point?” Castiel demands flatly.

“My point is, you’re _distracted_ and that makes me _nervous_!” she all but screams. It’s dangerous and she’s right to be nervous about it. As always, his loyalty and love for the Winchesters would be his downfall; she knew it.

Loyalty and love. It would always be their downfall, just as it had been hers.

He glares. “I _am_ holding up my end.”

“Ah yes,” she sneers. “But is that all you’re holding, huh? See—the stench of that Impala’s all over your overcoat, featherhead. I thought we’d agreed—no more nights out with the boys!”

“I spoke with Dean,” he replies coldly, giving her one of his usual side-eyed looks. “I needed to know what they know.”

“About what?” she murmurs softly, prowling closer to him, hip cocked to the side. “About _me_ , perhaps? Because I happen to have it on good authority that your two little _pets_ are currently trying to _hunt me down!_ ” she snarls, teeth bared and eyes flashing red, snatching his tie and pulling him down so she can glare at him from inches away. “Forgive me, but I think you just might have a little conflict of interest here.”

She shoves him away and snatches up a blade to shove into Eve’s brain. The vampire’s resultant screaming calms her. Dragging a hand through her tousled hair to tame it and her temper, she regards him calmly with her usual business demeanor.

“Please, I’m begging you, Castiel,” the demon tells him reasonably. “Just kill the Winchesters.”

“ _No_ ,” he snarls.

Her eyebrows rise derisively at his impertinence. “Fine,” she agrees easily. “Then I’ll do it myself.”

“If you kill them, I’ll just bring them back again,” he replies unconcernedly.

She sneers. “No. You won’t. Not where I’ll put them. Trust me.”

“I said no.” He glares, but relents with a sigh. “Don’t worry about them.”

Crowley’s eyes bulge. “ _Don’t worry about—_ what, like _Lucifer_ didn’t worry? Or _Michael_? Or Raphael or Lilith or Alastair or Azazel didn’t worry? _Am I the only piece on the chessboard who doesn’t underestimate those denim-wrapped nightmares?_ ” she screams rabidly, spittle flying.

That is the only reason she is still alive—she doesn’t underestimate her enemies, no matter how much she is underestimated in turn.

“Just find Purgatory,” Castiel instructs. “If you don’t, we will both die. Again and _again_ , until the end of time. The Winchesters won’t get to you.”

As he turns to leave, she screams after him, “ _Let them get to me! I’ll tear their fucking hearts OUT!_ ”

It’s a fair warning if she’s ever given one.

* * *

 

He storms back in a few hours later. “You sent demons after them?”

Crowley shrugs coldly. “You kill my hunters, why can’t I kill yours?”

“They’re my _friends_ ,” he snarls into her face, and her jaw drops.

“You can’t have friends, not anymore,” she laughs in disbelief. Is he that stupid? “I mean, my God—you’re _losing_ it!”

“I’m _fine_.”

The demons sneers. “Yeah. You’re the bloody picture of mental health.”

“You'd know what that looks like then?”

 

She snarls again at his interruption, but does not address it. “Come on, you think I don’t know what this is all about?”

“Enlighten me,” Castiel growls.

“The big lie,” she purrs, patronizing. “The Winchesters still buy it—the _good_ Cas, the _righteous_ Cas…And as long as they believe it, _you_ get to believe it. Well, I’ve got news for you, kitten— _a whore is a whore is a whore_ ,” she laughs tauntingly, but is interrupted when he bodily slams her into the wall, lifting her by her coat lapels off her feet. The tiles crack from the force of it.

“I’m only going to say this once,” he explains calmly. “If you touch a _hair_ on their heads, I will tear it _all_ down. Our arrangement, everything.”

She sneers. “An arrangement? _Please_. Castiel, you made a demon deal, plain and simple. This is _not_ an arrangement—don’t ever make that mistake, you arrogant fool.”

“I’m still an angel,” he continues threateningly, letting her go, “And I will _bury_ you.”

He leaves with a whisper of wings and she dusts herself off irately.

 _So he wants to play that game?_ She thinks, seething. _Little Cassie thinks he can play that game with the Queen of Hell?_

_Time to play._

* * *

 

When his overgrown Winchester buddies confront him and leave him, Crowley strides into the room, studying him with satisfaction in the ring of holy fire. “My, my…” she purrs smugly. “Playing with fire again, dearie? Did it get you burned again?” With a snap of her fingers, she extinguishes the holy fire.

“If you touch the Winchesters—” he growls.

The demon raises her hand innocently. “Please. I heard you the first time. I promise, nary a hair on their artfully tousled, handsome big heads. Besides, I think they’ve proved my point for me.” She grins mockingly. “It’s always your friends, isn’t it, in the end? We try to change. We try to improve ourselves…but it’s always our friends who gotta claw into our sides and hold us back, hmm? But you know what I see here?

“The new God and the new Devil working _together_ ,” she murmurs, enticingly.

He steps forward, enraged. “ _Enough_ ,” he snarls, startlingly close to her face. “Would you _stop_ talking? And _get out of my sight._ ”

Crowley smiles, seeing his heartbreaking regret and confliction dancing in those baby blues. “Well. I'm glad I came,” she smiles in cold gratification. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

In the doorway, she pauses to glance back to the angel. “You know the difference between you and me?” she ponders curiously, hand resting briefly on the door frame.

“ _I know what I am_ ,” she hisses poisonously. “What are you, Castiel? What exactly are you willing to do?”

With that, she leaves, satisfied.

At home, she drowns herself in Craig, until she can’t think and, like Castiel, she doesn’t know what she is anymore.

She told Castiel she knows what she is.

It doesn’t mean Crowley likes what she is..

* * *

The Winchesters are off-limits, according to Castiel. Crowley swore that much.

She won’t just let them hunt her down though, she’s never been one to just lay down and die. So the Hardy Boys are off the table. That’s fine. She knows very well how to find their pressure points. In fact, she may as well have them all listed neatly in a file.

It’s that easy.

 

“ _…you with me, Ben? Ben?_ ”

The Queen smiles when she hears Dean’s voice from the phone and scoops it up. “ _Dean_ ,” she hums warmly, the sound like velvet to the ear. “Fancy a chat?”

Stunned silence is her response for a long moment before he begins cussing. “ _Goddamn it you bitch, what the fuck did you do to them?!_ ”

She chuckles. “Been a while, hasn’t it? Since my so-called demise, yes? Rather well-performed don’t you think?”

“ _Crowley, let them go_ ,” he growls. “ _Now—or I swear I’ll—_ ”

“Right, right. You’ll rip me a cornucopia of orifices,” she supplies, blasé. “Let’s get to the bit where I tell you how this goes. Your chocolate has been in my peanut butter for far too long—”

He interrupts. “ _I’m going to kill you_ ,” he swears.

“Oh, Dean,” she sighs. “You really know how to make a girl wet and bothered, don’t you? Anyway, I’ve got your…what are they? _Ex_ -lady friend and _not_ -kid? And I’m keeping them until I’m satisfied that you’ve backed the hell off.”

His voice is desperate with helpless, protective wrath. “ _I’m telling you. Last chance to let them go easy._ ”

The Queen of Hell titters in amusement. “You’re adorable when you get all threatening, Squirrel. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt them. Not yet,” she promises easily. “Provided you, Jolly Green, and Bobby-Boy stand down. Got it? Splendid. Kisses all around.”

She drops the mobile back to the floor and looks to the demons holding her hostages. “Time to go, boys.”

* * *

 

“Sweetie, you look tense,” she observes casually when Castiel storms in.

He isn’t in the mood. (As if he ever is.) “You took Ben and Lisa?” he demanded sharply. The angel reminds her of a thunderstorm presently—that dark look on his face, the tension and power just waiting to break free, the thunder in his voice. Lucky for her, she knows how to avoid his lightning.

“Ah, that,” the demon shrugs.

“I _told_ you—”

“Not to touch Sam and Dean,” she continues for him, smiling widely. “And I’ve respected that, darling—even you can’t disagree. I’m merely exploiting the _obvious_ loophole. As long as I have the woman and the boy, your fop-coiffed little heroes will be scouring the earth for them. Therefore—not you, not me. Everybody wins,” Crowley smiles equitably.

“You should have talked to me first,” he snaps.

She turns, raising an eyebrow imperiously. “I’d rather ask for forgiveness rather than permission,” she replies with a graceful wave of her hand.

“Where are they, Crowley?” the angel demands. The Queen of Hell smirks as she mimes zipping her lip and locking away the key with a shrug. “You are _not_ to harm them do you understand me?”

Crowley glares. “Yeah, well. You know what? You’re maxed out on putting humans out of bounds. I’ll do with them as I please. You wanna stop me? _Go find fucking Purgatory!_ ”

* * *

 

“Can I ask you a direct question?” Balthazar turns.

The trench coat wearing angel nods. “Of course.”

“Are you _in flagrante_ with the Queen of Hades?” he demands calmly.

“…Of course not.”

Balthazar chuckles, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t blame you if I meant literally, of course—that’d be hypocritical of me. But…you always were such a terrible liar.”

* * *

 

“Alright, boys. This is where I get off,” Balthazar tells the Winchesters. “God be with you…and what have you.”

He vanishes, leaving the hunters, and Crowley follows him to the nearest bar.

“Hello, darling,” she says, coming up from behind him, running a hand down his spine. He jumps, choking on the shot he’d just swallowed.

“Cr—Crowley. Well…err, _awkward_ ,” he hums with a grimace.

She laughs and seats herself beside him. “Oh, don’t worry. I know you helped those damn Winchesters. It doesn’t matter. Not _really_. But I was surprised they’d roped _you_ into this mess.”

The angel snorts. “I’m with you there, mate,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Idiots, the pair of them.”

“Hmm, that’s the Winchesters in a nutshell,” the Queen of Hell agrees. “Idiotic bastards with luck on their side.”

“So…what can I do for the Queen of Hell this evening?” he eventually asks, with his typical handsome grin and swagger of a Lothario.

She smiles, leaning forward. “Thought you’d never ask. Now…been a while since our last get-together. When was it, two, three years ago?”

Balthazar laughs. “Now, _that_ was a fun night,” he recalls fondly.

Her eyebrows rise as an enticing smirk curls her lips and she leans in. “Care for a repeat?”

* * *

 

Come morning, Balthazar has left, the boys have rescued her prisoners, and Castiel has brought something useful.

“A Purgatory native?” she observes, a cruel grin curling her lips. “Well, aren’t we going to have _fun_ …”

* * *

 

It only takes a few hours to get what they need from her. And, a bit after that, preparing the ritual.

“Your Purgatory power shake, _monsieur_ ,” she says, handing Castiel the mixture. “Half monster, half virgin.”

Castiel examines the jar quietly. “Thank you.”

“You seem even more constipated than usual. Maybe get you some colon blow?” she comments. Which is an understatement—he’s positively subdued, too quiet. It makes her wonder…

In response, he speaks simply. “I’m renegotiating our terms.”

She turns to him, incredulous, and laughs aloud. “Is that so? And just what terms do you propose?”

The angel meets her sharp gaze evenly. “You get nothing—not one single soul.”

“Can’t help but notice. Seems a bit unfairly weighted,” she replies lightly and glares. “Castiel. You wouldn’t _dare_. I brought you this deal.”

He stands. “You think I’m handing all that power to the Queen of Hell? I’m neither stupid nor wicked.”

“Unbelievable,” she breathes and spins to face him murderously. “Have you forgotten—you’re the _bottom_ in this relationship!”

“Here are your options. You either flee or you die,” he informs her.

Somehow, she is actually shocked. “We…we made a pact—even _I_ don’t break contracts like this!”

“Flee…or die,” he repeats.

A thrill of fear trickles down her spine and her decision is made. Given those two alternatives, she will always chose the same.

Crowley scoffs. “Boy. You just can’t trust anyone these days,” she mutters derisively. “Not even should-be angels.”

Time for plan B.

* * *

 

So she sides with Raphael when Castiel’s deception is revealed, but not for one second does Crowley trust the bloody archangel.

Nor does she intend on actually letting the archangel take half the souls in Purgatory.

Bloody hell, really. She’s shocked Raphael even believed her— _honestly_. She fought off two attempts to jump-start the apocalypse. She wasn’t going to allow this third half-assed excuse occur.

And— _seriously?_ How many times does she have to fight the apocalypse? For once, she really does hope that three is the lucky number, for Go—for Sa— _fuck it_ —for her own sake.

* * *

 

With other cronies in tow, they interrupt Castiel.

“Never underestimate the Queen of Hell, darling,” she scolds with a grin. “I know a lot of… _swell_ tricks. Now, I think it’s time to re-renegotiate our terms.”

But of course he tries to smite her and the demon grimaces. “Sweaty hands, mate. What, have you got performance anxiety, dearie?” she laughs with a sneer.

He steps back in shock. “I…I don’t…understand.”

“You can feel me up all you want, sugar,” she laughs tauntingly, “But I’m safe and sound under the wing of my new partner.”

“Hello, Castiel.”

He turns in horror. “Raphael…consorting with demons? I thought that was beneath you.”

The archangel quips, “Heard you were doing it. Sounded like fun.”

“You know, Castiel,” Crowley comments. “You’ve said all sorts of shameful, appalling, scatological things about Raphael, but I found _her_ to really be quite reasonable.”

Castiel stares. “You fool…Raphael will deceive and destroy you at the speed of thought.”

It makes the demon laugh haughtily. “Right, right—because you’re _such_ a straight shooter. She has offered me protection against all comers.”

There’s his trademark narrowed-eye glare. “In exchange for what?”

“The purgatory blood.”

Raphael tutts. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Castiel…you really think I would let you open that door? Take in that much power? If _anyone_ is going to be the new God, it’s me.”

 _Well, if this isn’t an angel pissing match…_ Crowley rolls her eyes. _Zip up, boys._

“He’s going to bring the apocalypse and worse,” Castiel informs her.

Again, she rolls her eyes. “This is your doing, darling,” she shrugs. “I’m merely grabbing the best offer on the table. Now…you have two options: flee or die.” And oh, that’s sweet dramatic irony there.

Reluctantly, he tosses the jar of blood to her and vanishes.

“Coward,” she mutters, but she knows she is as well. She always has been.

* * *

 

In the end, she has the honor of performing the ritual. Or at least, she’s trying to when Dean and Bobby interrupt. Raphael catches the blade aimed for her, and the demon takes the chance to send them both falling from the cat walk.

“Bit busy, gentlemen,” she calls. “Be with you in just a moment.”

And she continues the ritual eagerly but…

“Perhaps I said it wrong,” she murmurs doubtfully.

“You said it perfectly,” Castiel answers from behind them. “But what you needed was this.” Her eyes widen when she sees the empty jar.

_Motherfucker…_

“I see,” she replies calmly. “And we’ve been working with…dog blood. Naturally.”

Raphael is even more impatient than her. “Enough of these games, Castiel. Give us the blood.”

Her hand flies to her forehead in frustration and disbelief of the archangel’s stupidity. “You… _Game’s over_ —his jar is empty!” she turns back to the smug angel. “So, Castiel. How’d your ritual go? Better than ours, I’ll bet.”

In response, his vessel glows with the power he has gained. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. All of them inside me. Millions upon millions of souls.”

_Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Abort mission. Time to go._

She chuckles. “Sounds sexy…well. Now, exit stage Crowley,” she replies and departs immediately.

It isn’t a good sign that he allows her to leave.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Alcoholism, Depression, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Grief, Suicidal Thoughts, and common food items and various anatomical parts being misappropriated as insults.

Crowley isn’t stupid.

She knows that means he has the power of a god in him. Knows that him allowing her to leave bodes ill. Knows she can’t really hide from him.

Doesn’t mean she won’t try.

So she hides out in a dingy trailer park in an RV watching the news on a chucky old television, drinking her whisky, trying not to think about her impending fate.

Until it arrives.

“Hello Crowley. You look stressed.”

The demon turns slowly. “Bollocks.” It’s pointless, but she strands calmly. “So. The jig is up—you found me.”

Castiel shrugs. “I never lost you. These…scratches, they’re all useless.”

Cringing at the ineffective use of wards and blood magic, she throws back the rest of her whisky. “Still. Can’t blame a girl for trying, eh?” she offers. “Fancy a drink before you smote me?”

“No.”

Crowley nods slowly. “Like to bend them right over, don’t you. Alright, let’s go,” she mutters and braces herself…but it’s for naught.

“I’m not going to kill you, Crowley. I have plans for you.”

Her face drops. _Fuck_. “I’m assuming it’s not to be your fuck buddy…”

“Here’s our new arrangement: I let you live, you return to your post as Queen of Hell—”

She interrupts. “But?”

“But…I chose where each soul goes.” He smirks. “I control the flow and you take whatever I give you.”

The demon chuckles humorlessly. “Right, so…I assume you intend to keep the lion’s share? What you’re saying is _Hell’s being downsized_?” she demands.

“I would have done away with it completely,” he replies impassively. “But I need a threat to hold over my enemies. And we need to keep Michael and Lucifer’s cage.”

_There it is._

“Right…I gather this is not a, uh, negotiation, then, hmm?” she tries.

“No,” he snaps.

Crowley smiles. “Then I graciously accept, boss!” she gives an elegant curtsey.

“I’ll be in touch,” he mutters and disappears. Finally, Crowley allows her knees to give out and for her body to collapse into a chair.

Well. That was quite possibly the scariest thing she’s ever seen in years.

* * *

 

When the Winchesters summon her straight into a devil’s trap in their panic room, she lets out a desperate whine. “Noooo…no,  _no_ , NO!” she shouts. “ _Come on!_ ”

It has been eight hours since Castiel gave the Queen of Hell her new orders, and she has spent those hours downing alcohol quicker than a baby drinking its mother's milk.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” Bobby mutters.

Petulantly, she plops onto the floor, tosses the glass aside, and begins chugging straight from the bottle.

Bobby, standing nearby, takes a step back when he gets a whiff of her. “Damn, Crowley—I think you’re drunk enough if I smell you right. Jesus.”

“Not _nearly_ drunk enough—not for this shit,” she snaps and takes another long swig. “My new boss is going to kill me for even _talking_ to you lot.”

Dean glares. “You’re just lucky I’m not stabbing you in your Scottish face, you little piece of—”

“Wait,” Sam interrupts. “What new boss.”

“Told ya I’m not Scottish, you deaf dick-pants!” She snaps at Dean and turns to gape at Sam. “And who th' fuck d’you think? Castiel, you over-grown fucking giraffe of a twat-waffle!” she shouts waspishly.

Dean snickers at ‘twat-waffle’, but it’s Bobby who replies. “He’s your new boss?”

“He’s _everyone’s_ new boss, you bleeding hillbilly of a twit!” she snaps. “Wha’d’ya think he’s gonna do when he hears we’ve been conspirin’?” She pauses, fingering the neck of the alcohol bottle thoughtfully. “…You _do_ want to conspire, right?”

The old hunter scowls. “No, we want you to sit there and look pretty.”

“Don’t tempt me, mate,” she laughs. “I’m a _hell_ of a stripper. Might just do a little routine for you, instead of _listening_ to you lot. But, before I sober up enough to listen to my better judgment…I’m listening.”

“We need a spell,” Dean replies. “To bind Death.”

She spits her mouthful of Craig across the floor. “Wh—bind Death? _Enslave_ Death?” she coughs, throat and sinuses burning. “You havin’ a piss-poor excuse ova laugh?”

“Lucifer did it,” the Ken doll shrugs.

“That’s _fucking Lucifer, the archangel, you ludicrous dumbass!_ ” she screams.

Sam cuts in. “A spell’s a spell.”

The demon gapes. “…you…you really believe _you_ can handle that kind of horsepower—you’re _delusional!_ ”

“Death is the only player on the board left that has the kinda juice to take Cas,” Dean explains coolly.

She laughs immediately, derisive and sharp and defeatist. “They’ll both squash us like _ants!_  Why should I help on a suicide mission anyway?!”

“Look,” Bobby snaps. “You really want Cas running the universe?”

She groans. “You bloody fuckin’ piles of wombat shit! I swear to—to—to _myself_ , you arses need to go brush your teeth with menstrual blood, you feculent maggots.”

As she pauses to take a swig of liquor, Dean tells her, “You know, I think you have a drinking problem, Crowles.”

She glowers. “I hope you choke on your fuckin’ pie, Ken doll!” she shouts. “ ‘Do thou amend thy face and I’ll amend my life’! You pisspot of a bagel.”

“Dude—Shakespeare?” Sam interrupts. “You're quoting Shakespeare? Seriously?”

She snorts dramatically. “Well, apparently someone paid attention in English class, yes. The Bard didn't have a whit of imagination for story lines, but he had a talent for insults and witticisms. Had a proverbial silver-tongue, especially in bed when he—”

“Oh, come on!” Sam recoils, grimacing. “I don't want to be scarred for life!”

The demon scowls. “Up yours, you bloody walnut. Get cracked.”

“You gonna help us or what, Crowley?” Bobby demands.

She groans, realizing her bottle of alcohol is empty, and sighs. “Fine. I’ll write the spell down for you lot. Just lemme outta here and gimme a paper and pen.”

While they hurry to do as instructed, she shakes her head. “ ‘Lord what fools mortals be’…and I’m a bigger fool.”

* * *

 

She doesn’t sober up as they go to fetch the required stone, but she does watch as they perform the spell, curious, hopeful.

“You gonna help at all?” Bobby mutters.

“Fuck you,” she growls, arms crossed. “I’m riskin’ my neck as it is.”

It doesn’t surprise her when it works, but she’s sure not happy, nor drunk enough. (Though she _is_ easily drunk enough to induce alcohol poisoning and liver failure in a human.)

“Umm…hello, Death?”

“You’re joking,” the Horseman mutters upon arrival, unimpressed with the welcoming party before him.

Dean turns quickly. “Death, this isn’t what it seems—”

“It _seems_ like you bound me,” he states coldly.

“For good reason, okay, just—ah, hear us out, please,” the hunter asks, hurriedly. “Um…fried pickle chip? Best in the state!”

“That easy to soothe me, you think,” he sneers. “This is about Sam’s hallucinations, I assume? Sorry, Sam, one wall per customer. Now unbind me.”

From her spot collapsed on the floor, clutching a bottle of vodka, Crowley speaks up, slurring, “They’ve gotta fuckova reason, promise, dearie.”

He turns to her, displeased. “Really, my dear, drunk?”

She scowls. “Fuck you,” she mutters. With a sigh, he vanishes her alcohol and makes the liquor evaporate from her body. “ _HEY!_ ” she screams. “That was _eleven bloody hours of drinking you just killed!_ ”

“Crowley, this is so beneath you. Get _up_ ,” he replies shortly, though not harshly.

Grumbling, she does and scowls at him. “Just for that, I’m eating your pickle chips,” she threatens and turns to the elder Winchester. “Get on with it, Dean.”

The hunter shifts his weight. “We need you to kill God.”

“Oh?”

“Kill God, you heard him right,” Bobby mutters. “Your…honor.”

Crowley cackles hysterically at that misused title. The Horseman ignores her amusement and regards the humans curiously. “You think I can do that?”

Dean nods. “You told me.”

“Why should I?” he asks simply.

“Because…we said so…and…” the Ken doll trails off, eloquent as ever. “We’re the boss of you. I mean—”

Crowley groans. “Oh, shut up you fuckwit. Let someone with a functional brain explain the situation—.”

As soon as Castiel appears, she freezes, silent, unmoving. He still sees her, of course, but she merely watches in horror as he and Death speak until the Horseman is freed and Castiel has vanished.

Later, as Death is slurping up his drink loudly, Dean finally speaks. “Um—”

“Shut up, Dean,” the Horseman snaps. “I’m not here to tie your shoes every time you trip. I warned you about those souls—how long ago? Long enough to stop that fool and here we are again: your little planet on the edge of immolation,” he pauses to scowl at the demon. “And you, Crowley, I _explicitly_   warned about Purgatory. I’ll deal with you after him.”

A muscle in her jaw jumps furiously and she marches to him and snatches the bag with the rest of his fried pickles. Plopping herself in the armchair opposite him, she glares crossly as she eats his fast food. “I told you I would,” she mutters, conjuring up a bottle of whisky, but Death returns his attention to Dean.

“Well I’m sorry,” the hunter snaps. “I’ve been _trying_ to save this planet so maybe you should find someone better to tip-off. Besides the fuckin’ Queen of Hell, apparently.”

He regards Dean imperiously. “Maybe I should spend my effort on a better planet.” Only then does he turn to the demon. “I told you, Crowley, not to touch Purgatory.”

The Queen of Hell was seething. “And I told you I _wouldn’t have to—if you just told me what I wanted to know!_ ”

He shakes his head. “That is always your downfall, every time, my dear,” he replies grimly. “Perhaps you’ll learn from this now. Crowley, there is _nothing_ you can do.”

The bottle of whisky crashes to the floor and her face is white as a sheet as she crumples in on herself. She doesn’t really hear his explanation.

She doesn’t really care to.

It doesn’t matter.

All of this—all of it—seizing Hell, going after Purgatory, getting the souls—it was all to gain power so she could find Zira.

“ _There is nothing you can do_.”

So he is dead.

And it has all been for nought.

Crowley, somehow, does hear his farewell words. “Try to bind me again, and I’ll kill you before you even start,” he threatens Dean. “Nice pickle chips, by the way. Oh, and Crowley? I shouldn’t be seeing you soon. Don’t attempt to alter that.”

* * *

 

She doesn’t do much after that.

Crowley returns to Hell numbly, orders her assistant Greyson to have everyone conduct business as usual and avoid Castiel/angel mutant/God/whatever-the-fuck-he-is (it doesn't matter it still terrifies her), and barricades herself in her room, buried under blankets.

There she remains.

Death as good as ordered her to remain alive, that much was true, but…he can’t force her to live.

Crowley isn’t stupid; she knows what depression is. She’s known it personally for years—since the eighteenth century. Hell, she hadn’t slept through the nineteenth century for shits and giggles; she simple hadn’t been able to gather the motivation to do anything else. So pointless and useless it all felt. It felt like grey fog: colorless, creeping in upon her slowly, unnoticeably until she was consumed by it. (There she had remained until Aziraphale had pulled her back into the world.)

And there are so many things, really. So many things bogging her down. Centuries, millennia worth of losses and heartache. For so long she had clung to Aziraphale for reason to continue. Even when he was gone…she had still clung to his memory and to the hope that he was still out there.

And people think the Winchesters are co-dependent? They don’t have six thousand years of history tying them together.

For years, she depended on him, unhealthily so. She knows that…but knowing it didn’t change it.

She depended upon him and built her will to live on him and the hope of finding him again—that was her very foundation. Now, that will is crumpling faster than the Tower of Babel.

* * *

 

Sometime later—she hasn’t a clue how long it has been—Greyson enters her bedchamber.

“ _Get out!_ ” she screams.

Greyson catches the pillow she throws at him and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. “Ma’am.”

She growls in warning. “What? I told you I was not to be disturbed!”

“I know, ma’am, but…this is a matter of utmost importance,” he explains delicately. “Castiel is dead.”

Slowly, Crowley sits up, blankets and sheets pooling around her. “Explain. _Now_.”

“According to reports, he couldn’t contain all the souls from Purgatory,” the demon replies. “His vessel was slowly breaking down so he tried to return them. He did but…the souls weren’t the only thing he brought from Purgatory.”

Something vague haunts her memory and she pales. “Not—”

“The Leviathan. They escaped, killing Castiel.”

The Queen of Hell draws in a slow breath. “Give me a few minutes to freshen up and I’ll return to work, Greyson. Thank you.”

Her assistant nods dutifully. “I’ll have the report waiting on your desk,” he adds and departs.

Alone, she allows her hands to tremble for a moment as she stands.

She remembers the first beasts—older than all save the archangels, principalities, and other upper echelons of angels. Locked away by God when He realized how _hungry_ they were, willing to eat away at all of Creation.

Despite this, all she can recall is a faint memory of fear and horror. Thanks to her fall.

But they are somehow infinitely more terrifying than Castiel deluded into thinking he was God.

Unlike her memory, she feels no fear at this news. They do not frighten her. She doesn’t care enough to be afraid. Her only reaction is…honestly, exasperation. A sense of ‘I just cleaned up this mess, can’t you keep it clean’. The apocalypse, her stint in hell, searching for Zira, being Queen of the Crossroads, fighting the apocalypse again, being Queen of Hell, trying to get Purgatory to look for Zira, fighting Castiel/“God”…now _Leviathan_.

Can’t she just rest?

No. No rest for the wicked apparently.

Not even restful death to pursue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't quite get it, after Death tells Crowley that Zira is dead, he also subtly informs her that she is not to pursue suicide.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, mental breakdown of sorts, some humor, and good ol' Dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Unhealthy Mental State, Depression, Self-Hatred, Implied Torture, and dick jokes.

_"I love you so much, Fiyero, you just don't understand:  
Being born with a talent or an inclination for goodness _is the aberration _."_  
- Wicked by Gregory Macguire

* * *

 

When her plan for Purgatory is a bust, something in her dies.

Hope. Hope has died. It had escaped Pandora’s box along with the Leviathans and all the other evils of the world, leaving her empty and gutted.

She has no back up plan. No contingencies. Nothing left.

There’s nothing left for her to do. Nothing that she wants to do, anyways. But she’s obligated to help take care of those fucking Leviathans so she assists. But besides that…she has nothing.

But Crowley’s the Queen of Hell. They _expect_ her to do evil. Hell, even if she doesn’t, they find a way to misconstrue malice and nefarious plots from even the simplest of gestures.

Even when she attempts to do good, it only ever hurts her. She tries to fight an apocalypse—her wings and her angel are taken. She tries to find him and tries to stop another apocalypse—she gets herself and Aziraphale killed. So God brought her back, for some reason.

But every God needs a devil. It was the natural balance, the natural order of things. Why bother waiting for a new one to seize control when there was a candidate ready.

It didn’t make her good, no matter who resurrected her.

 They expect evil, so they see evil. Everyone expects it at this point. What’s the point in fighting or arguing anymore? The Queen of Hell is supposed to be evil. She’s a fallen angel, a demon, a _monster_. She could never be good, not like Aziraphale had thought she was, like she once thought she was. It is impossible. Adam had a choice, yes, but not Crowley.

Even when she attempts benevolence, it only causes harm. She was destined for evil. Maybe that’s why she was brought back. To do this, to accept it. Crowley was a fool thinking she could change that or go against her nature.

There are no tears with this epiphany. No icy rage. She’s just so tired. So very tired of all this, of trying, of paying for trying to do good. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing matters.

Some time ago, she told Castiel she knew what she was. In truth, she was trying to forget. She can’t do that anymore.

She’s Crowley. She’s a fallen angel. She’s a demon. She’s the Queen of Hell. She knows this.

Time to stop pretending. Time to stop fighting fate.

She appears inside Dick Roman’s limo as he reads the paper.

The Queen of Hell is dressed to impress, of course, in a fine black silk number that contours to ever curve and displays her breasts deliciously. Sex appeal always helps with manipulation—especially with politician types, speaking from experience.

“Mr Roman,” she purrs warmly in greeting. “I thought it was past time we meet. I’m Crowley. I run Hell.”

He glances at her politely. “Yes, yes, of course. I agree, a hundred percent, high time we met.”

Crowley smiles and shows him the basket. “A token.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have. I love a good muffin,” he replies pleasantly.

 _Good_. “One hundred percent organic, fresh baby uvulas,” she adds. “Gluten free.”

His eyebrows rise in surprise. “So considerate, Ms. Crowley.”

The demon shrugs with a smile, setting the basket aside, as she leans forward conversationally. “I’ll cut to the chase, Mr Roman—”

“Please, Dick.”

She smirks. “Funny, normally I’m the one asking for that,” she laughs, but continues seriously. “Dick then. You and I control… _large_ interests that I feel _strongly_ could meld to the benefit of all…”

“You think?”

“Oh, darling,” she purrs, laying a hand on his knee. “I _know_.” But she continues, “Simply speaking, we should be _friends_ , you and I.”

He pauses. “Why? Why in the world would we be?”

“I brought you here,” she explains easily. “Dick, I found the way to open the portal to Purgatory.”

The Leviathan snorts. “To steal every last soul you mean. You and that angel friend of yours. Don’t roofie me and call it romance,” he adds, brushing her hand from his knee.

“I think you’ve got me wrong,” she replies smoothly.

He isn’t interested. “Now it’s your turn to listen. I’d sooner swim through hot garbage than shake hands with a bottom-feeding mutation like you. You demons are ugly, lazy, gold-digging whores. You especially, Miss Queen of the whores. You’re less than humans, you demons—and they’re not good for much til you dip them in garlic sauce. I’d never work with you, Crowley. In fact, if I wasn’t busy with other things, I’d wipe your kind from the face of the universe. And you deserve it. Am I clear?”

She glares, teeth bared, and leans forward sharply. “Don’t presume to know me you primordial _beast_. For the record, no one gets to kill the Winchesters and Singer except _me_ ,” the Queen of Hell sneers. “Keep the muffins.”

Crowley leaves without another word.

* * *

 

It’s easy to learn that the Winchesters are hunting Leviathan now, as if that should surprise her. They’re taking it upon themselves to save humanity once more.

She sends out orders to every demon out there that the chompers are dangerous enemies and that they are to avoid them at all costs unless a useful weapon can be found besides sodium borate. This, too, she mentions: it’s their holy water. But that’s the only weakness she knows of. So Crowley has everyone avoid them unless they _want_ a fight.

Which doesn’t stop some, but…well. She warned them.

In addition, she also orders—very strictly—that Winchesters are to be left alone. They are tackling the Leviathan issue and are not to be interfered with. Disobedience on this order will be met with a place on the rack.

The Queen of Hell has her sources scour lore and research for any way to get them back to Purgatory.

For now, she has to contemplate how to deal with Dick.

He doesn’t want to make a deal with the devil? Fine. She’ll destroy him and all his little minion chompers. She’s got nothing better to do with her time. Not anymore.

* * *

 

Honestly, she has enough to handle with the Leviathan without her own crossroads demons going rogue.

“Oh, crap” is how Guy greets her.

“Oh, you said it,” Dean snaps, back to her. “You’re in for a world of—”

She cuts in. “Hello, boys,” she says archly.

“Oh, crap,” Dean mutters and jumps behind the demon with the knife to his neck.

Crowley rolls her eyes. “Sam, mazel tov,” she congratulates coolly. “So who’s the lucky lady?”

The blond girl behind the Moose gets an excited expression. “Oh! You—you’re Crowley!” she declares in amazement, eyes wide as she gapes at the demon in her designer suit and heels, her hair pulled back into a severe knot at the back of her head.

“And you’re…well, I’m sure you’ve got a wonderful personality,” she replies sarcastically with a roll of her eyes as she steps forward.

“Stop or I’ll Columbian-necktie your little friend here!” Dean snaps.

The Queen of Hell sighs. “Please, don’t let him off that easy.”

“Ma’am…?” Guy interrupts slowly, nervously. “I don’t think yo—”

“I know _exactly_ what you’ve been doing, Guy. Don’t play games with me— _don’t ever think you’re capable of that_ ,” she snarls, eyes flashing red. Terror covers her underling’s face, but it doesn’t bring her any amusement or joy. “A little birdy named Jackson sold you out. Emailed _all_ the juicy deets to my suggestion box…I assume that’s my whistleblower?” she nods to the corpse on the floor. “Shame. He had a future.”

The black-haired Queen glares icily at Guy. “You, however, _don’t_.”

“I was just—”

She is before him in an instant, screaming into his face. “ _No._ I have one rule: _make a deal, keep it._ ”

“Technically, I didn’t —”

“The _reason_ we don’t call our chips in early—consumer confidence. This isn’t _Wall Street_ —this is _Hell!_ ” she screams, spittle flying into his face. “We have a little something called integrity! If this gets out, then who will deal with us? _Nobody_! Then what will we do, you bloody salamander? _Answer me!_ ”

“I—I don’t know.”

“That’s right,” she snaps coldly. “You don’t. Because you’re a stupid, short-sighted fucking prat. Now, Dean, hand the jackass over. I’ll cancel every deal he’s made.”

The hunter watches her curiously. “What’re you gonna do with him?”

“Make an example out of him,” she smiles cruelly. “Let demons see what happens when they don’t obey me and my rule.”

Crowley glances impatiently to the hunters. “So, fair trade? We all go our separate ways…no harm done, eh?”

Across the room, Sam scoffs. “What, out of the goodness of your heart?”

“ _Please_. Years of demons nipping at your heels and suddenly you haven’t seen one in months. Ever wonder why?”

“Well, we’ve been a little busy,” Dean snaps.

She rolls her eyes. “Hunting Leviathan—yes, I know. That’s why I told my lads to stay clear of you morons.”

The brothers exchange a glance. “What’d you know?” Sam asks.

“Too much,” she replies. “You met that…Dick, yeah? Smuggest tub of goo since Mussolini. Frankly, as his name suggests: a dick. And not the fun kind,” she sneers hatefully. “I loath the bastards. Squash ‘em all—please. I’ll stay clear.”

Dean nods. “Rip up the contracts first.”

“Done and done,” she replies with a snap of her fingers. “Your turn.”

The hunter shoves Guy to her and she snatches him by the tie, wrapping it around her fist until she’s got him in the air, feet kicking helplessly.

“Been a pleasure, boys,” she calls over her shoulder and grins coldly to Guy. “This won’t be for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in some backstory, for Crowley's little mental breakdown/trouble at the start of this chapter, I was largely inspired by "No Good Deed" from the musical Wicked.  
> I can see many parallels between Elphaba and Crowley's character arcs and development. Seeking to do good, lost by good intentions and circumstances, and pushed over the edge by the loss of their loved one.  
> Because, at least to Crowley, at this point it seems like she is incapable of doing good without it backfiring or her (or loved ones) being hurt for her efforts. She has been trying to get to Purgatory in a desperate gamble to save Aziraphale, but now...knowing she can do nothing to save Aziraphale, that she has failed...it's like that single spark of goodness has been extinguished. "Fine," she's practically thinking, "I can't even do good by saving him? And I'm punished for trying to save the world. Fine. It will burn."  
> So she's kinda focusing that desperate ire upon the Leviathan, purely out of spite. They are the worst scum on the bottom of her shoe and she's looking forward to scraping them off and exterminating all of them. As far as the Winchesters are concerned, she's an ally presently, but after the Leviathan are taken care of...who can say what she will do, who she will hurt in her...less than healthy mental state.  
> Hope that clears up any confusion or whatever. I just wanted to explain a bit more in case there was any confusion or curiosity.  
> I really do hope that I am portraying her mental state well, as that (for me) is the priority. I want to show the downward spiral of her state as she gains everything, only to lose it all and more than she ever thought possible.  
> I'd love to hear from you guys about your opinions or whatnot! Thanks to everyone for sticking though :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dicks, death, and depression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Canonical Character Death, Depression, Alcoholism, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms.  
> The usual.

In the middle of a meeting with her board members (as she calls them), her assistant rushes in. “Ma’am!”

“Yes, Greyson?” she asks. “This had better be important.”

He nods. “The Winchesters. Singer was captured by Roman…”

Crowley sighs. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” she tells the demons. “But, I’ve found in situations involving the Winchesters, I’m better off dealing with them myself. Meeting adjourned.”

They depart and Greyson steps forward grimly. “Ma’am…”

“What?” she asks, on guard when she realizes his tone. “Greyson, what else happened?”

The assistant sighs. “The Winchesters attempted a rescue. As the three of them escaped, Roman shot after them. Singer was hit.”

Her lips thin. “Where is he right now?”

“Ma’am, are you sure—”

“ _Greyson_ ,” she snaps sharply, eyes flashing red dangerously. “You will inform me of the details and their current location— _now_.”

-

As she approaches the hospital entrance, she finds Dean walking furiously out of Hammonton Regional Hospital, stalking across to a parked black car. “Dick! I know you're in there. Come on out…” he shouts, pounding at the rear window. “…you dick.”

Slowly, the window lowers, revealing Roman’s smug face.

“What, did you come here to finish the job?” he snarls. Dick smiles. “Yeah? Well, come on. Right here, right now, out in the open, you and me, Dick Roman. See? Deciding to jump a famous guy ain’t all upside. You can kill me right now—you want to see it online.”

Crowley pauses her approach, seeing the eyes watching and waves her hand, making their confrontation unnoticed amongst the curious humans nearby.

“Maybe you should go check on that friend of yours,” the Leviathan replies calmly. “He can’t be feeling too frisky right about now. I’m a very good shot.”

The hunter leans in, snarling. “We’re coming for you, and not just to hurt you—to _kill_ you. You understand me?”

He laughs. “Come on, Dean. I can't be killed.”

“You're gonna wish you could, then,” Dean snaps.

The business man laughs smugly. “That’s some conviction. You’d really crush it on the motivational circuit.”

“You’re either laughing because you’re scared or you’re laughing because you’re stupid,” Dean snaps.

“Or both,” Crowley replies from the hunter’s right, leaning against the boot of the car. She steps into the Leviathan’s sight. “Hello, boys.”

Dick narrows his eyes, utterly displeased at the sight of her. “Crowley, I thought I told you—”

“Sorry, not interested, _Dick_ ,” she interrupts sharply. “The Winchesters and Singer are mine—no one gets to kill them but _me_. I _warned_ you.”

The Leviathan sneers. “What, are they your favorite boy-toys or something?”

“Oh please. More like favorite chew toys,” she sneers and glances back to the hunter. “Squirrel, go back inside.”

Reluctantly, Dean nods. “I’ll see you soon, _Dick_ ,” he promises furiously and stalks away.

Crowley leans down to glare evenly at him. “Listen up, Chomper. Just because you _think_ you’re more powerful, more clever, and older than me does _not_ mean you are.” Her voice has gone as cold as a winter blast and she is just as uncaring to him as a blizzard.

A sudden gust of wind ruffles her loose curls, like a storm cloud surrounding her cold face.

“So newsflash: you aren’t. I am _Crowley, Queen of Hell, the Temptress, the Serpent_ —do _not_ underestimate me or wave me off,” she hisses. “Because I _will_ outlive you, as I’ve outlived all the other uppity _slugs_ that think they can take me—Lilith, Lucifer, Castiel, and Raphael to name a few. You are _nothing_ compared to them—disgusting black goo on the bottom of my stiletto. And I will _enjoy_ watching you die.”

With that, she straightens and strides away from the Leviathan, not looking back once as she enters the trauma center. She approaches the brothers in time to hear Sam’s explanation of Bobby’s condition, but it does nothing to lessen the knot of worry and dread in her stomach.

“Crowley—can you—?” Sam nods towards Bobby’s room, pleading.

She can see the old hunter in his hospital bed, head wrapped up in bandages in place of his usual cap. “I will do my best,” she swears, but pauses. “I need to get in there with him.”

The brothers pause, trying to make a plan, before Sam quickly grabs her by the elbow and they lead her forward to the attending nurse. “Ma’am, can she visit him, please?” Dean asks politely.

Crowley puts on her most worried and aggrieved expression, which admittedly isn’t hard to do.

 “Are you family?”

“She’s his wife, our aunt,” Sam replies quickly. “She was out of town at work and just got here…”

The nurse hesitates. “I…I shouldn’t let visitors in right now but…” She glances at Crowley sympathetically and nods. “Alright, for a few minutes…” She waves them in and the demon hurries to his bedside like a worried spouse.

Once the nurse has gone, she lays a hand on his head, senses extending to feel the wound—

But she stumbles back when she feels the bullet.

“What?” Dean asks immediately.

Slowly, she all but crumples into the chair at Bobby’s bedside, staring in horror at the unconscious hunter. “Roman—Roman shot him, yes?” she croaks.

“Yeah,” Sam nods slowly.

Crowley glances to the brothers as tears begin to well up. “I…I warned him, some time ago…I _told_ him not to touch you three—that only I could kill you.”

“Gee, thanks,” Dean mutters.

“I couldn’t exactly tell him that I’m _fond_ of you morons, now could I?” she snaps weakly and bites her lip. “He…he must have suspected anyways.”

Sam shifts. “Why do you say that?”

“…the bullet and the gun, they…he must have put a spell on them. I can’t…the damage the bullet has done…I can’t…It can’t be healed supernaturally—by demons or angels or spells,” she explains haltingly, voice cracking. “I can’t do anything.”

“Seriously?” Dean nearly shouts. “You can’t do anything?”

She glares, enraged. “You think I don’t want to help him? I would—I would do _anything_ ,” she spits fiercely. “I’d do anything to help Bobby but _I can’t!_ I am _just_ as helpless as you two!”

Neither say anything and she sighs. “I’m sorry,” Crowley whispers softly. “Truly, I am.”

Carefully, she stands and studies Bobby’s lax face. Knowing that it would be the last time. “I wish you recovery, but…in case,” she sighs softly and leans down to press her lips to his whiskered cheek. “Goodbye, Robert dear.”

The Queen of Hell straightens and looks to the brothers’ drawn faces. Gently, she pats their shoulders. “If there’s anything I _can_ do…or if you need help fighting Roman, call,” she offers quietly, slipping a business card with her number into Sam’s hand, and leaves. 

There’s nothing she can do here.

 

Not thirty minutes later, she receives a text from Sam:

_He didn’t make it._

 

* * *

A few months later, she’s taking her first real night off since the Leviathan hassle began when she gets summoned.

One moment, Crowley is sprawled on the couch; the next, she’s lying on the floor of a dingy cabin room, looking up at the Winchesters, thankfully still clutching her whisky.

“ _Fuckin’ hell!_ ” she shouts immediately. “Can’t I get one night off to get wasted without being interrupted by you fuck-wits?!”

Sam glances at her curiously. “You wasted yet?”

“Gimme half an hour and another bottle,” she snaps. The hunter rolls his eyes and snatches away the liquor. “Hey— _that’s mine!_ ”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Time to dry out, _your highness_. We’ve got a lead on how to take out Dick.”

Her eyebrows rise and she forces the alcohol from her bloodstream. “I’m dried out,” she sighs and stands. “Now. Tell me.”

 

“So, that's what all the rumble, rumble was about,” she murmurs thoughtfully, mind spinning in circles around Leviathan, prophets, and tablets. “Who translated it for you?”

“Never mind,” Dean snaps, impatient and sour as ever with her. “You gonna give us the blood or not?”

“Happily,” she agrees and shrugs. “But not quite yet. I'm all for chopping Dick, but I can't have you running around with a vial of _my_ blood, now, can I? You know the sheer number of nefarious spells my enemies can use that blood for?”

The Squirrel glares. “Well, then when?”

“Last,” Crowley shrugs. “After you've got all the other components. Most difficult, the angel part, I'm assuming. Given your role in their little apocalypse, I can’t imagine the choirboys upstairs are wetting their vestments to do you a solid,” she shrugs. She doesn’t know if her blood would work as a two for one, but she’s better off not risking it. Crowley isn’t exactly for the Hardy Boys to learn her tragic backstory. Besides, she wants to know what they’ll do now that their pet angel is gone.

“…Unless, of course, you have an angel up your sleeve,” she adds smoothly.

Dean’s gaze is returned flatly, unflinching. “Well, that’d be convenient, but, uh, no.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam informs her. “We’ll get the angel blood one way or another. We just need you to be ready next time we call.”

“Will do,” she agrees simply. “I’ll come ready with the blood.”

Sam watches her curiously. “So…what now? That’s it?”

Tired, the demon merely sighs. “Seriously? Now we stop the world domination by Dick.”

“Not your preferred brand of domination by dick?” Dean laughs.

The hunters expect a deviant, salacious quip in response, but she doesn’t even crack a smile. “No.”

Neither move for a long moment, clearly expecting more, but when she does nothing, Dean leans down to break the trap, a signal for her to leave.

“Oh, here’s a tip,” Crowley adds suddenly. “I have it on good authority there’s _one_ Alpha still among us.”

“ _Whose_ authority?” Dean snaps.

“Mine. Wily character, that Alpha vampire. Somehow made good his prison break before Cas went nuclear on the place,” she shrugs easily.

His glare does not lessen. “And you know this _how?_ ”

“Keep your friends close, your enemies blah blah,” she shrugs indifferently. “Needless to say, I keep tabs. He moves around quite a bit. But I have an inkling I know where to start the Easter-egg hunt. Happy trails.”

As she disappears, she burns the location into the table spitefully. That’s for interrupting her night off.

* * *

 

Later that evening, as the two brothers sit drinking beer, Sam speaks what’s been on his mind. “Was it just me or was Crowley acting weird?”

His brother nods. “Dunno what’s up, but yeah, she was definitely…worried about something, preoccupied. Chick looked exhausted.”

“She’s kinda seemed like that a lot lately…” Sam agrees quietly, thinking. “D’you think…Can demons get depressed?”

“Hell if I know but…something’s up with her,” Dean grunts. “I threw in that jibe about dick domination, ‘cause I figured she’d be all over the dick jokes—but she didn’t say a word!”

Silence falls for a moment, as they consider what they know of the demon and realize that so much of that has been flipped on its head. They hardly know her at all.

“Remember what Death told her—a few months ago?” Sam recalls a moment later. “I’ve been thinking about it, but I can’t figure it out. They argued…vaguely. He scolded her for going after Purgatory when he warned her…and she exploded at him—”

Dean nods. “Something about…she wouldn’t have needed to do it—”

“—if he’d just told her what she needed to know,” Sam finishes.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean says quickly. “I thought it was all about the souls—that she wanted Purgatory to get them? What’s there to learn from Purgatory? What could have been in there that she was so desperate to get? Nothing there but monsters’ souls and the chompers, right?”

Beside him, Sam pauses, thinking. “Maybe it wasn’t about what was in Purgatory. Maybe it was about what she _thought_ was in Purgatory—and what wasn’t.”

The memory hits him, suddenly, of Crowley drunkenly babbling about the past—of Crowley fighting to save an angel—of Bobby telling him how Crowley had been on his couch for a week, catatonic in grief for the missing or dead angel.

“Son of a bitch.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bye-bye Levis.

She is unsurprised when she finds herself summoned to Dick Roman’s office. At least she’s not drunk when _he_ summons her.

“Well, well, well,” she smirks, even when she notices the devil’s trap above her. “Hello, Dick.”

The Leviathan offers a polite nod. “Ms. Crowley, we have _so_ much to talk about. Take a seat.”

She settles into the chair easily as he goes to a side table to pour drinks. “How do you take it?”

“Alcoholic. Shall we get on with this, then?” she snaps, unimpressed with his pretense of civility.

He chuckles calmly. “Just extending the hand of hospitality.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up and she snorts in derisive skepticism. “To a bottom-feeder mutation like me?” she replies coldly. “Tired of swimming in hot garbage, are we?”

Roman laughs, trying to be good-natured as if it were a joke between old friends. “That was a little colorful, huh? Well…didn't mean to offend,” he adds, handing her a glass before sitting in the armchair across from hers.

The demon snorts. “Of course you did, _Dick_. Or do I remember the part where I _especially_   was called an ugly, lazy, gold-digging whore—in fact,” she pauses, inspecting her immaculate nails, “I do believe the phrase ‘Miss Queen of the whores’ was utilized.”

“Ah, yes, well,” he shrugs easily, still giving his politician-smile. “First impressions and all that. Water under the bridge, I hope?”

Crowley sneers, swirling the alcohol in her glass. “We’ve yet to even build a bridge, darling. But…if you’re suddenly calling, I guess you’re up to speed on the Winchesters, which means you intercepted the Prophet. And the Prophet told you that _my_ blood is the key to everything.” She pauses to drain the glass easily in one go before eying him coolly. “You know what I like about you?”

“Lack of pretension?” he suggests, slick as the black ooze he really is.

The demon rolls her eyes. “You're smarter than you look,” she responds easily. _Not_.

He grins. “Oh, well, now you're just flirting, Ms. Crowley,” he responds as he stands to pour more drinks, a charming grin on his face.

The Temptress notes his charm and flirtatious wit, trying to appeal to her through what he perceives as her own tactics. As if she’s weak to a nice smile and clever innuendo.

“Not easy…to kill me, but doable,” she murmurs. “Especially for you lot. You kill angels. You can certainly wipe a demon off the board. And yet…here we are, negotiating like proper psychopaths. Why the Moriarty act?”

Returning with refilled glasses, he nods. “Well, I assume you have a vial of your blood stashed somewhere, and in the event of your death, it goes directly to Sam and Dean.”

“See?” she purrs primly, leaning forward. “Smart assumption, Dick.”

He shrugs and leans forward conspiratorially. “One can’t live on looks alone. Here’s my offer.”

“All ears,” the Queen of Hell acquiesces, but making no promises.

“Full immunity for you and your constituency. I’m talking free-range grazing for all demonkind. I’m willing to cordon off, say, Canada. You and your crew can work your little deals, have your way with the locals…”

Her head cocks to the side. “All of Canada?”

“Have it,” he nods with a grin.

She hums. “Not much of an apology, but…I’ll consider it. And down here?”

“America’s ours,” he explains firmly. “Your sales team stays out—period. That’s not up for negotiation. We need America. They’re so…fat.”

She nods in agreement at that. “In exchange?”

Roman produces a vial from a pocked inside his jacket. “The blood of one _sadly_ unimpressive demon in New Jersey. All I ask is that you give it to Frick and Frack, tell them it's yours, stand back, and let them come to me.”

Examining the vial in her hands, she considers. “I can’t deny I long to see those two obnoxious brothers digested once and for all…” she murmurs and glances to him calmly before eventually agreeing, “You have a deal. I suppose you want it in writing?”

“I don’t kiss on the mouth,” the Leviathan says flatly.

Crowley shrugs, not especially wanting to touch him at all. “Your loss, darling. I just so happen to have a standard rider…” she brings out the scroll from her coat pocket, “Right here.”

As the scroll unfurls and rolls open across the office floor, Roman grimaces, full of dread.

The Queen of Hell grins eagerly and holds up a magnifying glass. “I do _so_ like this part. Don’t you?”

* * *

 

Two hours later, they haven’t made it even halfway. Despite the utter bore that it is, Crowley always finds a joy in aggravating the other negotiator. Roman holds on to his patience for a surprisingly length of time, though he makes no attempt at hiding his displeasure.

“…‘Should the party of the first part fail to inform the party of the second part of their intent…’”

“Pause right there,” the Leviathan interrupts. “Correct me—that should be ‘party of the second part vis-a-vis party of the first part,’ because we just amended clause 314-sub-a.” He sees her mouthing the words and nods. “That’s right. You should do this professionally.”

She hums, a noncommittal response to his barb, even as she makes the correction. Even if he has handed her a loophole by mixing up his grammar. “Splendid. So, ‘Should the party of the second part…’”

* * *

 

“…in which case, the party of the second part forfeits all rights to Canada _ad infinitum_.’…I think we're done here.”

Four hours later after that, they finally finish.

An hour beforehand, she had been summoned but—thanks to Roman’s trap—she can’t answer. She has a feeling she knows who’s calling.

“Susan!” Roman calls for his secretary. “Take this from Ms. Crowley, make triplicates, get pens and a notary. We’re ready to sign this puppy.”

* * *

 

Crowley appears in the cabin as soon as she is released from the trap.

And _oh_ …isn’t this a pleasant surprise.

“…she stood us up,” Dean snaps at Meg. Behind her is Castiel. She doesn’t know whose presence surprises her more.

“Well, I’m sorry about that, but I’m outie,” the demon spits. “She could still sh—”

“Show up at any time,” the Queen finishes for her and enjoys the various looks of shock from them all. She waves to the brothers lazily. “Hello, boys. Sorry I’m late. _Well_ , this is an _embarrassment_ of riches.”

She looks to Meg. “Stay, won’t you. There’s really nowhere to run,” she purrs and despite that, Meg still tries to run for the door. The Queen of Hell appears in front of her, blocking her exit. “Don’t even think of smoking out, pussycat. I’ve got eyes all over the place.”

Castiel steps forward. “Leave her be.”

Humming, she steps past the demon to stride toward the angel in the trench coat. “ _Cas-ti-el_ ,” she drawls slowly. “When last we spoke, you— _well_ , you enslaved me. I’m confused. Why aren’t you dead?”

He is not intimidated. “I…don’t know,” he replies simply, dumbly.

The brunette steps forward, heels clicking dangerously. “Well, do you _want_ to be? 'Cause I can help with that…” she offers, voice as cold and hard as ice.

“All right, enough,” Dean snaps, ever quick to protect his angel.

She glances at him with a snarl. “It’s enough when _I_ say. I came here to help you—and I find out you’ve been lying to me, harboring an angel, and not just any angel—the one angel I most want to _crush between my teeth_.”

Of course, Crowley honestly couldn’t give two shits about either of the Winchesters’ unexpected allies, but… _expectations_ , as usual.

Always expectations to deal with, public image to be preserved, reputation to be continued. She was the Queen of Hell—of course she had to threaten a traitor and a Lucifer loyalist.

Right?

Meg growls, “Oh, so you can crush angels now, huh?”

She turns back to her. “You bore me, you know that? Hmm? No sense of poetry,” she sneers and looks back to the angel. “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

Castiel shrugs. “Well, I'm still, uh, honing my communication strategy,” he admits. “I haven’t even been back to Heaven. I-I keep thinking there are no insects up there, but here we have trillions.” As he rambles, she exchanges an incredulous glance with Dean. “You know, they’re making honey and silk and…miracles, really.”

“…I’m sorry. What are you talking about?” she asks in utter confusion.

He shifts. “Um, preferring insects to angels, I guess. Here. I can offer a token, if you like,” he pauses to offer a plastic back of some yellow substance from his pocket. “It’s honey. I-I collected it myself.”

Crowley glances to Dean, silently asking if he was serious. “You’re off your rocker. He’s off his rocker—is that it?” she sneers and adds spitefully, “Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Dean sighs. “Look, did you come here to, uh, donkey-punch your old grudges or to help us end Dick? Pick a battle.”

She sighs dramatically. “Well, I’m vexed. I’d like to do both. But where’s the fun in clobbering a ball of wet fur? Text me when… _Sparkles_ here retrieves his marbles, I suppose. Meanwhile…a prezzie,” she smiles and offers up the vial of blood.

“Really? Just boxed-up and ready to go?” Sam asks doubtfully.

“What can I say,” she replies modestly. “I’m a model of efficiency.”

He nods. “Is that right? Then why were you late?”

The Queen of Hell sighs. “Dick had me in a devil trap. He’s not an idiot, unfortunately. He knows what you two are after.”

“So what did he offer you?” the moose snaps.

“A fair deal. In exchange for giving you the wrong blood. It’s demon, but is it mine?” she asks. When no one responds, she rolls her eyes. “It’s _my_ blood. Real deal, morons.”

“And why should we trust you?” Dean growls.

She snorts. “Good God, _don’t_. Never trust anyone. A lesson I learned from my _last_ business partner,” Crowley murmurs, eying Castiel pointedly.

Dean nods. “All right. Give us the blood.”

She laughs. “Certainly. Oh, bonus. Meg, I’d scoop you up, take you home, and roast you till you’re jerky— _but_ …Cas can have you for now. Hilariously, it seems he’d be _upset_ at losing you. And the boys need Cas to get Dick. Don’t they, Cassie?” she teases.

“Oh, I—I don’t fight anymore,” the angel replies innocently.

It makes a scoff escape her lips unintentionally. “Oh, come on. Given the particulars of your enemy, sadly, you’re vital.”

With final smirk, she tosses the vial to Sam and departs.

* * *

 

When she senses Roman’s destruction, she immediately appears there in the black goo-covered room. Sam huddles around a young teen, sheltering him, and it is easy to deduce that he is the prophet.

“What the hell?” the moose gasps. Castiel and Dean have vanished.

Kevin informs him nervously, “More chompers any second, Sam!”

She chuckles. “Not to worry, darling. I have a small army of demons outside. Cut off the head, and the body will flounder, after all. Think, if you’d had just one king since before the first sunrise. You’d be in quite a kerfuffle, too.”

His jaw drops in realization. “Which is exactly what you wanted.”

Crowley shrugs uncaringly. “So did you. Without a master plan, the Levis are just another monster. Hard to stomp, sure, but you love a challenge, don’t you? Your job is to keep them from organizing.”

“Where’s Dean?” he demands.

She hums thoughtfully, inspecting the goo that was once ‘Dick Roman’, now splattered wonderfully everywhere. “That bone…has a bit of a kick. God weapons often do,” she snorts. _Understatement._ “They should put a warning on the box.”

He glares. “Where _are_ they, Crowley?!” he shouts.

“Can’t help you, Sam,” the Queen of Hell shrugs and snaps her fingers. Quickly, two of her demons appear, snatching the boy. “Sorry, Sammy. Prophet’s mine.”

With another snap of her fingers, the trio disappear. “You got what you wanted—Dick’s dead, saved the world. So I want one little prophet. Sorry, moose. Wish I could help. You _certainly_ got a lot on your plate right now. It looks like you are well and truly…on your own,” she murmurs sadly and pats him once on the shoulder, a poor consolation. She understands his situation, truly—she does.

But she can’t do anything for Dean and Castiel. Not where they’ve gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one more chapter in Part One: grace.   
> And...trust me, the next one is wonderful. Want a hint? Bobby.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby, deals, and epiphanies.  
> (And smut. Don't forget the smut.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Anxiety, Night Terrors

“What now, Greyson?” she asks tiredly as she enters her office. “Dick Roman was just ganked. What now?”

“A soul that just arrived,” the demon replies, concise as ever. “That of Bobby Singer.”

* * *

 

Bobby stares at Crowley in utter disbelief as she strides into his cell. His shock is met with the dark, impossible-to-read eyes…but if he didn’t know her, the hunter might suspect she’s a bit…relieved to see him. But just as he notices it, any hint of it is gone and she seems as smarmy and arrogant as ever.

“Well,” she sighs, eying him curiously. “Why don’t we move this to a more comfortable environment?” She murmurs and snaps her fingers.

The two of them appear immediately in her office.

Well, Bobby assumes it’s her office, though it looks more like a study or library from an old world mansion. The walls are covered by dark, elegant oak bookcases, filled with a mixture of ancient tomes, scrolls, and more modern books. For a moment, all the hunter can do is stare in awe at the elegant collection.

She sees the astounded expression and chuckles. “I’m not a heathen, Bobby dear, really. I have an appreciation for books, I’ll have you know.”

He drag his gaze back to the demon, who seats herself behind an elegant wooden desk, and he sits in one of the armchairs before it. There’s a roaring brick fireplace in the corner and several, probably priceless paintings hanging on the walls, below a high arched ceiling. It’s an elegant, classy, and comfortable place, though Crowley appeared quite intimidating behind the large desk. The office suits her—refined yet subtly menacing, despite the taste of it all. One would not forget whose presence they were in, not in here.

“So…the boys ganked Dick Roman,” she informs him with a small, proud smile. “He’s history. And…well, I _am_ surprised to find you here,” she comments curiously.

He shrugs. “Yeah, well…hunting isn’t exactly a line of business that leaves your hands clean and blood-free. So what’s this all about, Crowley?” the old hunter demands. “Pullin’ me from that cell.”

She smiles fondly at his gruffness. “Care for a glass of Craig, darling? Aged thirty years.  It’s _divine_.”

“Since I don’t suppose you got any beer, alright,” he relents.

It makes the demon smile in surprise before she pours two tumblers and hands one to him. “Now to business, yes?

“It’s simple, Bobby my dear. I’m offering you a deal.”

He scowls. “Cut the crap, Crowley. You’ve already got my soul here in hell.”

She laughs thinly. “Indeed. That’s just the thing, you see…I’m quite sure your soul doesn’t belong here, it was meant to go upstairs. I suspect so anyway. And I’m feeling… _sentimental_ , I suppose, for the good ol’ times when we fought together and our biggest problem was the apocalypse.” She grinds her teeth together audibly, and Bobby's eyebrows rise.  “Now my most recent problem was a dick with an overinflated ego and too many teeth.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’m feeling sentimental, as I said, and a bit guilty, or as close as a demon can feel to guilt…so I’m making you an offer. Knowing your and the boys’ ways of escaping heaven and hell, not to mention crossroad deals…I’m expecting them to bust you out of here. Out of hell. And here’s my offer: get out of hell, whether by your own actions or that of Team Free Will…and I will return you to life. Your old body and everything, with fully functional limbs too. Just as you left it, though with all those nasty wounds healed. How’s that sound?”

“What's in it for you?”

The queen takes a long drink of the liquor and shrugs. “Honestly? Nothing more than perhaps a chance of entertainment. Your soul is yours and when you die next, I’ll even make sure it goes to heaven properly.”

The hunter watches her warily. “Why?”

Crowley sighs. “I’m feeling sentimental. And if you do get topside…well just consider Team Free Will in my debt for a favor. You owe me one…or half of one, considering I couldn’t save you. That's it.”

“You’d just…let me go, just like that? Bring me back to life? What do you want from this—really?”

“Yes, I will,” she replies simply. “I just wanted to kill that bastard Leviathan. Now that’s done…I don’t care,” she breathes lowly.

Cautiously, Bobby walks over to lay a hand on her shoulder. “Crowley…are you alright?”

She laughs, bitter like over-brewed coffee. “Not really, no. I haven’t been for a long, long time. Recently, it’s just taken a turn for the worse. I imagine you and the boys can relate to that—depression, grief, PTSD, whatever shrinks want to label it as. I’m just. I’m just so tired…”

There’s something ancient in her voice, that makes him wonder how old she really is, how long she’s lived, what she’s seen.

Immortality is an idea that is widely idolized and sought but, seeing her like this, Bobby knows that no one is really meant to live forever. Not really.

“What Death told you when we bound him…did that have anything to do with that angel of yours?” he asks slowly.

The Queen of Hell stills, takes in a deep breath, and eventually nods, resting her face in her hands, exhausted. “Yes. Yes, I…I wanted…I wanted to find Purgatory because I hoped either Aziraphale would be in there or those souls would give me enough power to find him, but…” her voice cracks. “According to Death, there’s nothing I can do. _Nothing_. It’s all been for nothing. Can you imagine, Bobby? Imagine building your will to live upon one person—centering your long life entirely upon them—depending on them for a reason to go on until…one day, he’s gone. With it…everything I was.” She laughs hollowly.

“Everyone thinks Sam and Dean have an unhealthy codependence. It’s nothing. I knew that—I _know_ that. But he was the only thing keeping my depression at bay. And for years, getting him back has been my only purpose, my only motivator— _but what’s the point?_ ” she suddenly shrieks, leaping from the chair to pace across the hardwood floor.

“ _I’m the Queen of Hell_ for fuck’s sake,” she screams, making the lights flicker. “I’m a demon—that’s synonymous with evil, right? So why do I try to do good? Why fight the apocalypse? Why try to stop Lucifer? Why try to save humanity? _Why?_ ” Crowley sends a lamp flying into the wall. “In his memory? In his honor? Because that’s what he’d hope of me? _No._ He’s _gone_. He’s _dead_. It doesn’t matter anymore!”

A helpless, wordless scream of anguish follows her rant as she slumps back on the edge of the desk.

The hunter watches her fit sadly, brows drawn low as he sighs. Trembling, she bows her head, eyes clenched shut and holding back tears.

It’s the expression of agony, an echo of losing something—someone—you’ve always wanted and loved. He’s seen it before. He’s caused it before.

The case that sticks out most in his memory is Karen—she’d had the same expression during that last fight of theirs, days before her death. Then, he’d left her alone in her misery.

Now, he does for Crowley what he should have done for his wife all those years ago, and Bobby carefully wraps his arms around her, not allowing her to stew alone in her pain.

“Bobby, what are you doing?” she asks in utter befuddlement, voice muffled by his chest.

He rolled his eyes, lips twitching fondly. “I’m huggin’ you, idgit. A usual way to express fondness and offer comfort. Just go with it before I decide slappin’ the mess out of you is the better thing to do,” he tells her gruffly, but not unkindly.

“Er…alright then,” she accepts quietly and he feels some of the tension loosen from her stiff body.

For a moment, that’s all they say and merely continue to hold on, enjoying the moment of comfort.

“I’ve lost people too,” he tells her quietly, haltingly. “My wife, Karen. I…I had to kill her myself. Twice. So…I can relate a bit. I understand that grief, the way it tears at you and never lets go. But…”

His voice fades for a moment, but he glances down at her still, fragile face and forces himself to continue.

“You don’t have to do things just because it’s expected of you, Crowley,” he eventually says. “Whether it’s what someone you love would expect, or what people expect because you’re the Queen of Hell. So, what—that’s your title. That’s not all you are. I think…deep down, I think you’ve done all those things because you want to do the right thing.”

Crowley sits up, eying him in concern. “You… _do_ recall I’m a demon, yes?”

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly a run-of-the-mill black-eyed demon—you know?” he chuckles.

It makes a wry smile slip onto her face. “No…no I most certainly am not…” Her voice trails off, until she glances at him and changes the subject. “Now. About that deal?”

“At this point I think you're just offering me deals to get more lip lock,” he grumbles fondly and stands. “It's a deal, yeah.”

She smiles and waits for him.

Bobby sighs but steps forward and catches her lips.

This time, her mouth is gentle and soft on his, enjoying a more relaxed pace. One of her hands flutters up to rest upon his chest, her body relaxed and soft against him. Their other two kisses had be quick and fierce and competitive, but the hunter is surprised to find she is now slow and languid. Even as the kiss deepens, it isnt all lust and passion, it’s…almost more emotional—apologetic and thankful at once, sweet and indeed sentimental, he realizes as she strokes his scruffy cheek. He allows his arms to wrap loosely around her and a hand to curl around the back of her neck as he steps closer.

Eventually, she pulls back and ends the kiss.

Their foreheads come to rest against each other, their breath mingling between them: a comfortable, easy pause.

Slowly, he leans down to kiss her again. Crowley nearly collapses against him, allowing him to support her.

It’s been so long, so very long since she’s allowed anyone in. Sure, it had technically only been a few years, but…she was in Hell most of that time. That was more than six-hundred years in Hell-time. She can barely remember the last kiss with Zira, ages ago before he disappeared. She’s been so lonely ever since…

Sure, she kissed to seal deals, seduced a few humans or demons to get what she needed, slept with some for favors—but none of it had been sincere, for her own pleasure and release.

Once, just this once, she decides to allow herself this one comfort, and she melts into him as his hands begin to slip beyond her lower back.

“Bobby,” she whispers as she pulls away from the kiss. “Do you want…?” A question, an offer, a request, a hope.

He nods, face flushed. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly and she smiles as she transports them to her bedroom. Quickly, the bed is occupied.

It’s a slow dance between them, slowly peeling away layers of clothes until he lays her down on the bed, and his mouth wanders, beard tickling her smooth flesh. There aren’t words shared between them; their only noises are sighs, moans, and breathy cries. It’s sweet and gentle and slow between them, intimate and comforting.

Later, Crowley will remember the warmth of their flesh pressed together, the gentle suckling of his mouth, how she wrapped around him entirely, the softness of his lips, the way she’d trailed her fingers along his spine, at ease.

For now, she is content, as their naked bodies tangle comfortably and her eyes slip closed under the weighty blanket of sleep.

* * *

 

Bobby is woken in the night by shaking.

Quickly, he realizes the trembling warmth in front of him is Crowley, caught in a nightmare. “Hey, it’s okay, Crowley. Shh, girl—it’s a nightmare…”

Indistinct noises and murmurs he eventually puzzles out into words, but not much. As he rubs her back and shushes her softly, he listens.

“… _no_ …Alastair stop…why do…shouldn’t…Adam, stupid boy…” she slurs, though her twitching slows. “Michael, _no, no_ —stop… _Zira…_ don’t…-ve me all alone…no…just wanna…love…stop…no…”

After a few minutes, his efforts have comforted Crowley without waking her up, and she returns to restful sleep, so he curls back around her to fall asleep.

* * *

 

She’s awake first in the morning in the dim bedroom, still cuddling with her bed partner. Of course, Crowley would deny that she _cuddles_ , of all things.

But she’s trusted Bobby with so many of her secrets, what’s one more?

 _That’s not all you are_ , he’d said.

Maybe…he was right. Maybe Zira had been right. Perhaps it is a choice.

She smiles softly, suddenly, in the dim morning light filtering through the dingy curtains. Okay, time to do what she wants, what she believes is right.

Bobby shifts, breathing altering, as he wakes up.

“Morning,” she murmurs.

“M’n’n,” the hunter grumbles. “Wa’s’a coffee?”

The demon laughs in surprise. “So you’re _not_ a morning person. Lucky for you, I don’t have to brew it. Here,” she sits up to conjure two mugs of coffee. They sit quietly as they drink, waking up, and returning to full cognitive function.

For a moment, she considers that it would be very easy for her to fall for a man like Bobby Singer. Were they in another world, were she human…she might. But he still grieves for his wife and she for her angel. It wouldn’t be fair to neither the hunter nor Crowley to start a real relationship. But this is enough, this easy comfort and light banter they always interact with.

“Didn’t expect you to hang around,” he later comments.

Crowley chuckles. “Well, neither did I. But…thank you, Bobby. Some hurts can’t be soothed by time, only by ourselves. I believe you helped me find some solace. Thank you.”

Mindful of his coffee, he shrugs. “Not a problem. And I, uh, assume we’ll both mutually agree that the boys don’t need to find out about this?”

She laughs brightly, unexpectedly. “That, I think, we can agree on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part One: grace


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late, guys. College, man. College.

**choice**

[ _greys_ ] noun

1. an act or instance of choosing; selection.

2. the right, power, or opportunity to choose; option.

3. the person or thing chosen or eligible to be  chosen.

4. a carefully selected supply.

5\. an abundance or variety from which to choose.

6. something that is preferred or preferable to others; the best part of something.

7. an alternative:  _T_ _here_ _i_ _s_ _another_ _choice._

 

* * *

 

“ _Remember this: Nothing is written in the stars. Not these stars, nor any others. No one controls your destiny.”_  
–  Wicked, Gregory Macguire

 

* * *

 

With that little epiphany had, she takes time to consider her next moves.

Crowley’s only goals recently had been getting rid of the Leviathans. Which was as good as taken care of now.

Her thoughts turn to the prophet in her custody now—to the tablets out there in the world—to the demon tablet somewhere out there.

The demon tablet that could explain how to cure them all—or get rid of them—or banish them all to Hell permanently.

Her conversation with Bobby floats to the forefront of her mind.

“… _I understand that grief, the way it tears at you and never lets go…_ ”

“ _Some hurts can’t be soothed by time, only by ourselves. I believe you helped me find some solace._ ”

And yes…some wounds never really let go but…there comes a time when you can set it aside. Remember it, yes—but not controlled by it. Not anymore.

She had to stop living for a ghost. His memory—his expectations—him. _Aziraphale_ , she thinks, a soft sigh in her mind. Time for her to live for herself.

 “ _…You don’t have to do things just because it’s expected of you, Crowley. Whether it’s what someone you love would expect, or what people expect because you’re the Queen of Hell. So, what—that’s your title. That’s not all you are_ …”

She nods to herself slowly.

Time to figure out who she was—who she wanted to be. Time to decide.

Because…

Aziraphale is dead, she tells herself firmly. She can’t do anything to change that. She can’t fix that. Angels don’t have an afterlife. He’s not watching. He’s not judging her every action. He can’t expect anything more of her. Not now.

Time to remember who she was before the grief took over who she was. Before the world told her who she was supposed to be.

Before she was just (only, definitively) the Queen of Hell.

“That’s not all I am,” she murmurs softly.

Because she _isn’t_ just the Queen of Hell. She’s a fallen angel. She’s the demon who was in love with an angel. She’s the devil who fought the apocalypse thrice. She’s a broken, flawed person…filled with cracks and fractures. But she isn’t shattered. Not yet.

She’s Crowley. She’s Crawly. And she’s Sariel, even if she doesn’t remember much.

Time to figure out what that really means.

Time to choose for herself what that means.

* * *

 

She meets Kevin in the warehouse her boys had taken him to for safe keeping.

“Well, look at you,” she murmurs appreciatively—he’s all cleaned up now.

He glances at her, worried. “Will there be torture now?”

“Torture?” she repeats in surprise. “Heavens, _no!_ Quite the opposite, really, my young prince. The sky’s the limit for you and I,” Crowley purrs and leads him to the recently-recovered demon tablet.

“But first…I recall hearing something about your mother, Kevin?” she asks.

He nods. “Do you know where she is—or if she’s okay?”

Crowley smiles gently to him. “Tell you what—you read this tablet to me, Kev, and I’ll place your mother under my protection. No one— _nothing_ will touch her. Deal?”

Slowly, the boy eyes her warily. “That’s it? That’s all I have to do? And you swear you won’t hurt her?”

“You have my word,” she replies. “But…demons don’t seal deals with a handshake, m’boy. They’re sealed with a kiss. More binding, you understand. Traditional.”

He nods awkwardly.

So she takes pity on the boy, really, and settles for little more than a peck, just enough to seal the deal. Then, she motions to the tablet. “Here we go. Now, remember: feel like a winner, _be_ a winner. Alright? Eat up.”

* * *

 

The moment he mentions hell gates, she freezes.

She is so torn.

It details closing the gates of Hell. The tablet explains how to do it.

But…closing the gates of Hell would _not_ be good. Yes, demons would not be able to escape. But it was a two-way door: souls would not be able to enter.

And souls denied access to their proper destination would be caught in the Veil between life and death, ghosts stuck with no choice but to be there, to surely slowly be driven mad.

Souls destined for Hell?

Those weren’t people who’d skipped out on paying their taxes. Those were the souls of killers, psychopaths, evil people—who would take quickly, eagerly to becoming malevolent spirits. And with Hell sealed, the Veil would just slowly fill up with more and more spirits who couldn’t be banished…

Hell on earth. Literally.

She can’t let that happen.

Just like that, she finds herself with a new purpose.

* * *

 

But Kevin slips through her fingers and escapes. With him he steals the demon tablet.

Within a year, Dean has miraculously returned from Purgatory— _and_ Kevin has found the brothers, doubtlessly telling them about closing the gates of Hell.

They can’t understand the ramifications of it—they can’t or the don’t. Or they think the gains outweigh the risks.

The Winchesters have never been stupider.

She has to stop them.

* * *

It is not a bit surprising to find the Winchesters, Kevin, and the prophet’s mother arriving at Plutus’ auction.

“…It's okay. It's okay,” Sam mutters to the others as they eye the Word of God in its case. “We just got to come up with a plan B.”

She snorts. “And what, pray tell, could possibly have been plan A? Bring the Prophet to the most _dangerous_ place on Earth, memorize the tablet, and then va-moose?” She smiles to the brothers. “Hello, boys.”

“Crowley,” Dean growls.

She looks to the youngest. “And Kevin. What a pleasure to see you…” The Queen of Hell pauses to look at the woman beside him. “And who is this lovely young thing? Must be your sister.”

With a shout, Mrs Tran slaps Crowley across the face, catching her completely off guard. “Stay _away_ from my son,” she snaps at the demon, unafraid.

“Charming,” the Queen mutters with a roll of her eyes. “Defiling her corpse just made number one on my to-do list.” The boys move quickly, but she stops them with a wave of her hand. “Unh, unh, unh, unh. Just a joke, boys. I don't mind a little love tap, but anything more, and our mookie pals here may just throw you out, and that would be a _shame_.”

“She's right, Dean. It's not worth it,” Sam mutters.

The demon laughs. “Listen to Moose, Squirrel,” she advises and turns to see Beau entering. “Ah. Here comes our host. Good luck on your bidding, boys.”

* * *

 

As she takes her seat, she glances at the angel nearby. “Well. Samandriel. Slumming it, are we?”

Hmm. She remembers him, strangely. Just a bit. He was so young…so very young—barely even a fledgling when the war in Heaven started. Last time she saw him, he couldn’t even fly yet.

So the angels were still on the board.

She sits behind the hunters and hisses behind them, “Don't know why you're so keen on that hunk of dirt. So it tells you how to blast back a few demons? I'll just make more. Can't get rid of all of my black-eyed boys, Samantha.”

The moose glares over his shoulder. “Yeah, we'll see.”

* * *

 

As the auction drones on, her attention is focused on the boys. Even when Dean gets up and leaves for a few minutes—returning even more grim-faced.

“Plan C tanked,” he mutters to his brother.

She chuckles. “Maybe you should try plan D for dumbass,” she mutters, and grins at their indignant glares—even winking to Dean when his eyes promise a nice bullet wound later.

“Our next lot, the Word of God…capital 'G'—very old, very rare,” Beau announces.

Standing, Crowley quickly offers, “Three billion dollars.” Twisting to gape, both of the hunters mutter “Woah” and it’s nearly enough for her to crack a smile.

Samandriel stands too. “The _Mona Lisa_.”

“The real  _Mona Lisa_ ,” Crowley snaps. “Where she's topless.”

“Vatican City.” _Seriously_?

“Alaska.”

The auctioneer shakes his head. “Palin and a bridge to nowhere? No, thanks.”

Crowley scowls, annoyed. “Alright. The moon,” she announces grandly.

“You're bidding the _moon_?” Dean mutters in disbelief.

She casts a glance to him. “Yeah. Claimed it for Hell. You think a man named Buzz gets to go into space without making a deal? Please.”

From the small stage, Beau shakes his head. “Ah. I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen. It seems that our reserve price has not been met. So in order to stimulate the bidding, we're going to add an item to this lot…Kevin Tran, Prophet of the Lord.”

His mother screams when he appears in chains on stage. As the brothers stand beside her, an employee forces them back into their seats.

“…Mr. Tran is the only person on Earth who can read this tablet, which makes them a perfect matching set. So, do I hear a bid of, um—”

The woman interrupts. “No, stop! I'll give you whatever you want. I have a 401K—my house—”

From his chair, Plutus chuckles as his auctioneer shakes his head. “Good effort, Ms. Tran, but I'm afraid this is a little out of your price range.”

For a moment, she thinks before declaring, “My soul!”

“Mom, don't!” Kevin shouts.

“I bid my soul!”

Crowley sneers. “If it's souls that you're after, I can give you a million souls…so do we have a deal?”

The god of wealth sits forward in his chair and folds up his newspaper. “It's not about the quantity, chief. It’s about the sacrifice. This little lady’s soul is the most valuable thing she has. It's everything. Are you willing to offer everything, Ms. Crowley?”

She doesn’t even know what could possibly mean everything to her. There’s nothing left…

“Tick-tock,” Dean mutters.

The Queen of Hell grinds her teeth together, trying to devise a possible bid until— “Fine. You win. I bid…my own soul!”

Plutus guffaws. “Ms. Crowley, you don’t _have_ a soul.”

“You know very well that which I refer to,” she replies calmly.

His head tilts to the side as he regards her curiously. “Yes, I do…quite valuable and rare…”

“Singular, these days,” she replies, smooth as silk. “Only one left.”

He considers. “Indeed…It’s quite tempting, I admit, but we work off of relative value and sacrifice. It hardly means anything to you anymore. It’d be no more a sacrifice than giving me an eyelash, so I’ll have to decline.” Plutus chuckles and looks to Mrs. Tran. “Congrats, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, thank you,” she murmurs.

Crowley turns to leave.

* * *

 

It’s easy to have Beau help her. Bribery couldn’t be more obvious of an option, really.

Once that pesky tattoo is burned off Mrs. Tran’s arm, it’s simple to smoke in. Of course, she feels bad about hurting the poor woman—after all, she’s just trying to protect her son; that she would sell her soul to protect him is quite admirable—but…she has to get that tablet.

The gates of hell could not be shut.

She keeps that in the forefront of her mind as she possesses the woman. If she takes a moment to heal the burn on her arm, well, no one notices.

When she and Beau return to the brothers, Kevin reappears at Dean’s prompting.

“What’re you gonna do with her soul?” Sam asks, glaring.

Plutus grins. “Whatever I want. I might sell it, or maybe I'll just tuck it away with my other precious objects, let them keep me warm at night. Mm,” he chuckles. She lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders, putting on a brave face. The god of wealth holds out his hands. “Whenever you're ready, dear.”

Slowly, she steps forward—but Dean darts forward. “Wait!” he shouts and shoves up her sleeve, revealing the absence of the tattoo. Crowley smiles sweetly. “Hello, boys,” she greets and allows her eyes to flash red.

“Crowley,” the moose growls and she sends them flying as she sweeps her arms wide.

Plutus stares in disbelief. “No. You can't—my warding spells!”

“Your girl Friday showed me a few loopholes,” she sneers and Beau shrugs to his employer. “And all it cost me was an island in the South Pacific. I _love_ a bargain.”

Really, it’s just a bonus that she can get rid of this slimy, greedy pest, she thinks as Beau shoves a stake through Plutus’ chest. Quickly, she snatches the stake out of him and throws it at the employee guarding Kevin. The stake goes clean through his neck.

Kevin runs forward. “Get out of her!”

The Queen of Hell laughs as she picks up the Word of God. “If I had a nickel for every time someone screamed that at me…”

Sam tackles her to the ground away from Kevin.

When she stands, she sees the boys standing protectively in front of the prophet, Dean wielding the demon-killing knife. “Getting in touch with your maternal side, huh, Crowley?” he mutters.

“Something like that,” she shrugs.

The hunter raises the knife. “Well, come and get him.”

Pausing, she glances at the tablet in her hands to Kevin, and shrugs. “One out of two ain't bad,” Crowley mutters and turns to run.

Dean, of course, runs after her through the warehouse. Eventually, he catches her, pinning the demon against a wall as the Word of God tablet goes flying along the ground. The hunter holds the knife to her neck, even as Kevin runs in. “Mom!”

“Oh please,” she sneers. “All this little needle would do is kill Mommy dearest, not me, you moron.”

But she shoves him away and smokes out.

* * *

 

In her normal form, Crowley re-enters and brushes off her suit and coat. “Well, that was…exciting,” she comments and picks up the tablet from where it had fallen on the floor. “Hmm. Can’t close the gates to Hell…without _this_ , can you?”

Kevin crouches next to his unconscious mother. “Surprising what mommy dearest has rattling around in her head,” the demon murmurs. “Want to know who your real father is? _Scandalous_ ,” she gasps.

“Crowley!” Dean snaps.

She rolls her eyes but continues. “I know we're not mates, Kevin dear, but one word of advice— _run_. Run far and run fast. 'Cause the Winchesters—well, they have a habit of using people up and watching them die _bloody_. You’re better off nowhere near them. _Toodles_ ,” she calls and blows a kiss before leaving.

* * *

 

It’s surprising to find that a couple demons have captured an angel for her.

“What’re their names, Greyson?” she asks curiously. “They deserve a reward.”

 “Felix and Madge, I believe,” he replies. “They captured him leaving Plutus’ last auction.”

The Queen of Hell pauses outside the warehouse door. “Ah,” she murmurs. “Wait here, Greyson. I’ll speak to our…guest alone.”

She enters and—yes—it’s Samandriel who is strapped into a chair with Enochian sigils.

“Crowley,” he says in recognition.

She nods, surprised at the lack of fear in his voice and bearing. “Samandriel, dear…tsk, tsk, tsk…captured by demons. Shame. So…darling,” she murmurs, crouching to meet his eyes levelly. “Here’s how it’s going to go: I’m going to ask you a few questions. Answer them quickly and honestly, and we will skip the bloody torture, alright?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” he replies.

Crowley sighs. “You’re so young, dear Samandriel. So…innocent. Almost…naïve. It’s quite endearing, really.”

“I’m hardly young.”

“Not to most, I suppose…but to your brothers and sisters…you’re one of the youngest, aren’t you? You came along _just_ before the War in Heaven. I bet you barely remember that…”

His lips thin. “I remember enough. And I’m quite older than you.”

It makes her laugh. “So you think,” she acknowledges in amusement. “So, dearie…now that Castiel and Raphael are gone…tell me, who’s running the show upstairs?”

For a moment, Samandriel hesitates, but there’s little reason to hide this, really. “Naomi…among others.”

Crowley’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? Interesting…” Naomi. Of all angels…strange. Her lot were in charge of reprogramming rebellious angels. _Interesting_. “And what exactly is the Heavenly Host attempting to accomplish now?”

“Protecting the Prophet and the Word of God,” he replies. “As you well know.”

She hums in thought. “Well, darling. I’m sure there’s more. But we have plenty of time…I’ll be back, darling. Ta-ta!”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warning: Torture, Character Death, Grief, Alcoholism

“—Mom! Did you break the salt line by the store-room window?”

“What?! Of course not!”

Crowley clears her throat and they turn. “I wouldn't bother, Kevin. There's no rush. Been a while, hasn’t it? Two or three months, yeah? Hello, Delta.”

The witch nods. “Hiya.”

Mrs. Tran turns to her in shock. “You betrayed us?!”

“How could you?” the prophet exclaims.

She shrugs. “I'm mercurial.”

Laughing, the demon explains, “I’m afraid Delta found you to be a difficult and ungrateful employer, Mrs. Tran. She felt she’d gain far more leverage by negotiating with me. I am, after all, the Queen of Hell. And you are a mom.

“I did good, didn't I, your majesty?” Delta grins.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, very.” With a snap of her fingers, the witch disappears. “Presumptuous twit.”

Mrs. Tran steps forward, protective as always. “Please. Take me. Leave my son alone—”

With her hip cocked, Crowley scoffs. “You? What would I do with _you_?” She glances at the demon with her. “Deal with her. Destroy the makings for the spell.”

“No!”

“Yes,” she snaps to Kevin. “Say goodbye to Mommy.”

Quickly, Crowley transports herself and the boy to a warehouse. The prophet is seated in the chair opposite her, with the tablet before him. “Here’s how it works, Kev. This prophet thing…there can only be one in existence at a time,” she explains patiently. “As soon as one dies, another gains his or her prophetic powers and takes their place. Lucky for me, I know the line of succession. So, Kevin, as you can see, our relationship is much simpler now. You either help me, or you die and one of those fine specimens takes your place…I don't quite understand your hesitation.”

He glares. “You just killed my mother.”

Well, if that’s what he thought. The demon had orders to capture Mrs. Tran—not kill her but… ‘deal with’ she’d said. Kevin could interpret that however he wanted. “Very unfortunate. But to be fair, she was plotting to kill me and my kind. Kevin. _Kev_. I can do a great deal for a plucky lad like you.

The teen glares. “You'll just kill me as soon as I read the tablet.”

Crowley shakes her head. “Of course not. Are all young people so horribly cynical? It depresses me, Kevin. Here’s the thing. Because if I kill you, then I’d have to track down and train the next prophet. And I already like you so much…So what's it gonna be? Not that there’s much of a choice, yeah?”

He glares silently.

She sighs. “Don’t be recalcitrant, Kevin—you know it brings out the worst in me,” she warns.

His silence continues and she picks up a knife from the table. “Perhaps you doubt I’m serious?” she murmurs. “How about losing that pinky finger? Would that loosen your tongue?”

Of course, she makes a show of pinning down his hand on her desk and slowly lowering the knife until—

“Okay!”

* * *

 

She waits and listens patiently.

“…this section has to do with building defensive weapons against demons,” he reads.

Crowley hums. “Mm-hmm. You're familiar with that one, I believe.” That’s how he escaped that first time, then. Resourceful little bugger.

“And this one... describes, uh... sealing the gates of Hell,” Kevin explains nervously.

The Queen of Hell stills. “So it’s true. It’s there…Clearly, humans cannot possess this thing. What was God thinking?” she mutters. “But we’ll get back to that. We’re just getting to the sexy part.”

* * *

 

The stone tablet seems to shake in Kevin’s hands as he reads it.

“…Hold on. This is different. It’s—it’s not text. It’s like…a personal note?”

She glances back to him. “A personal note from _God?_ ” she snaps doubtfully.

“No. From…the archangel…Metatron,” he replies.

Crowley snorts. “Oh please, he was no archangel, Kevin. The scribe…the suck-up. Took down God's word, picked up his cleaning. The original secretary. What’s it say?”

He hesitates. “It's like a—a farewell note… ‘Upon completion of this task, I take my leave of my master in this world. So ends the transcription of the sacred word for the defense of mankind. Into the hands of God's children thus passes the compendium of tablets.’”

Her head shoots up. “ _Compendium_?”

“It’s a collection of things, especially one systematically organized,” Kevin absently defines.

“I _know_ what a compendium is, Kevin,” she snaps absently.

It’s been so long since she last remembered that fact. What else…what other tablets are there?

 _Oh_.

Of course. Angels.

And speak of the devil—“Castiel. Fresh from Purgatory,” she observes calmly. “I wish you’d called first.”

He glares. “Crowley.”

The demon hums. “Which Castiel is it this time? I'm never sure. Madman or megalomaniac?”

“Kevin is coming with me,” he growls, circling around toward the boy.

She snorts, standing across the glass table from the angel. “I think not. The Prophet’s playing on my team now.”

Castiel holds up his angel blade, a threat. Unimpressed, she holds up her own. Kevin, meanwhile, stands and backs up.

“So this is how it's gonna be?” the angel murmurs.

She snorts. “It’s all very West Side Story, but let’s be logical. You look like hell—I should know. You’re not up for this, my dear.”

But light shines from Castiel, eyes glowing intensely blue. “Maybe you can get it up, but you can’t keep it up,” she replies, blasé.

The power he was exuding intensifies and shadows of his wings appear on the wall behind him.

“You’re bluffing,” she sneers.

“Do you want to take that chance?” he replies.

Castiel, as she has come to observe in the past few years, is nothing but unpredictable. He can’t have the power to beat her but—

He’s right. She doesn’t want to take that chance. There’s no telling how he got out of Purgatory or how strong he is.

She snatches the demon tablet from the table—just as Castiel smashes it in half.

So she escapes with half of the tablet.

It isn’t much. But it’s enough to keep them from sealing the gates of hell.

* * *

 

With half of the demon tablet gone, she focuses on the fact that an angel tablet could exist.

She has an angel. Samandriel knows.

Of course, she once knew about the tablets too. But the fall burned away most of her memories—especially sensitive secrets like that.

But she knows how angels work. Knows how to make them tick.

Knows how to extract the secrets from them.

* * *

 

“I am sorry about this, Samandriel,” she says quietly. “It’s not fair to you at all. I don’t want to hurt you…but I need to find out these things. It’s imperative. I don’t expect you to understand, of course, but…I must. And for that, you have my apologies and regrets.”

The chained angel eyes her warily. “What are you going to do?”

She sighs and places her hand on his forehead. “ _Sleep and know no pain_ ,” she murmurs in Enochian, a quick little spell, and he slumps limply. Though he’s still contained in his vessel, Samandriel will not be aware of this, not really. He won’t feel it.

Which really is for the best.

* * *

 

The metal contraption on his head is straight out of bad scifi movies, but. Ridiculous as it looks, she knows it works.

Carefully, she screws metal picks into the angel’s head, carefully directed into specific parts of his brain and delicate nerves, through which threads of grace are woven presently.

It takes time and finesse, but she eventually hacks his operating system, to be metaphorical.

Her apron is covered in small amounts of blood, but she has done her best to keep the angel from bleeding too much. She spends extra time on her precision; do too much damage and it would overload the system—he’d scream and exude waves of problematic energy. She doesn’t want to unintentionally hurt him.

Thankfully, she knows what she is doing. Crowley doesn’t have to cause reckless collateral damage.

When he begins reciting Enochian, she pauses. “… _Zoh-bah-leh-ta…Zoh-bah-leh-ta. Sah-teh-voch-leh…_ ”

_You, celestial being, have been created to be an Angel of the Lord._

Well. Progress at last.

She’s in.

* * *

 

She wonders, suddenly, what’s happened to the coding in her. (Whatever it should be called.) What happened to it when she fell.

From what she’s heard…

Well. It seems like it’s wired in them to serve Heaven and perform the mission God gave them. (It’s vague there and leaves lots of room for interpretation, which explains angels like Raphael.) It’s also included to protect the tablets.

Crowley has no idea what her own operating system is like now, but…a part of her wonders if it still exists. After all—she has always fought apocalypses and threats to Humanity, and she now fights to protect tablets. Maybe it still exists in her.

* * *

 

She is very interested when she understands that Naomi has been hacking into his system as well. Controlling him.

Controlling others. Altering their minds, their memories, their choices.

Even Castiel.

Slowly turning him against the Winchesters.

“What is she doing to you all,” she murmurs in dismay.

* * *

 

Eventually, Crowley finds what she’s looking for.

“ _Voh-meh-pah-rah-less. Voh-meh-pah-rah-less_ …”

The tablets. Bingo.

“… _Zod-leh-fah_ …”

Crowley sighs and tweaks a screw slightly. “Demon tablet,” she mutters to herself. “Tell me one I don’t know, huh?”

“… _Bah-nah-sah-ee…Ar-doh-zah-feh_ …”

Yeah, yeah. Leviathans.

“… _Pah-deh-rah_ …”

She stumbles back in nauseous confirmation. “An angel tablet,” she murmurs. But that’s all there is. He has no other knowledge about it, other than its existence.

Quickly, hearing explosions from outside, she snaps her fingers and gets rid of the metal, heals the angel, and wakes him. He blinks slowly, disoriented.

“Samandriel,” she snaps, kneeling in front of him quickly. “Listen to me. _Listen_ —do you hear me?”

Slowly, the angel nods, eyes focusing.

Outside, she can hear shouting and violence. It isn’t difficult to sense that it’s the Winchesters and Castiel.

“Do you remember what I learned?” she asks urgently. “Naomi—she’s controlling you, manipulating your coding itself. You and all the others. Even Castiel.

“You _must_ listen to me, this is of utmost importance and we don’t have time to waste,” Crowley explains quickly. “I’m not what you think. I’m not trying to release all the demons from Hell with the demon tablet—I’m trying to stop those idiot boys from closing the gates completely—even to souls. Do you understand why?”

He stares in shock. “They can’t—”

“Exactly. And now. An _angel tablet_ —do you know what kind of power that contains?” she says, and quickly removes his bindings. “What Naomi could do with that?”

He shakes his head urgently. “She can’t—no. No one should have that—”

“The Winchesters and Castiel are coming to rescue you right now,” she explains, just as there are some explosions from outside. “Go with them. Help Castiel keep the angel tablet from Naomi, _please!_ ”

The angel stares at her, so young—so _young_ — _she can remember him, still too small to fly, wings still growing—he was so happy, so kind, so faithful to their mission, so excited to help humanity—he was one of Aziraphale’s favorites—_ wait _—how did she—_

She shakes the thoughts away for now and focuses on the brother before her. “Will you?”

Samandriel stares, awe appearing on his face. “Of course. And—thank you,” he smiles to her sincerely.

She returns it, a small, gentle smile, and leaves.

* * *

 

Within minutes, the little angel is dead.

Crowley, in her office, screams as she smashes a bottle of whisky against the door.

* * *

 

Her dog is killed. Her dearest, favorite hellhound.

By the Winchesters, no less.

It’s like salt in the wound.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The usual: violence, sex, and witty banter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Violence, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content*.
> 
> * Slight Dubcon, as her partner is unaware of her identity.

It takes time but she begins to make progress. But…

Naomi…there was a tough nut. She remembers the other Principality—they’d had run-ins a few millennia ago, after Crawly became Crowley. Naomi was a ruthless sort—cunning and manipulative to a ‘t’. And she was only one faction leader in Heaven. Admittedly, the most powerful faction and the most powerful leader…but.

If Crowley had to pick one angel left she would least want to be boosted by the power of the angel tablet—it’d be Naomi.

* * *

 

After some time, she hears that Lucifer had it in his possession and placed it in one of his crypts.

So Crowley goes down to her inner-most prison.

There’s only one Lucifer loyalist she has left who could know.

“Hello, Meg.”

 

Meg, of course, is less than cooperative.

But that’s okay—even when she escapes and joins up with the Winchesters. Because they find it. And she follows easily.

Especially when only Sam and Meg wait outside the warehouse, even if they do beat the canon fodder she sends in.

Lightning and thunder fills the dark sky above them as she appears. “I believe they’re playing my song,” she smiles as she strides to the pair of them. “Love what you’ve done with the place. You really think all that was gonna keep me out forever? Or at all, for that matter?”

Jolly Green shrugs. “At least long enough for Dean and Cas to get the tablet and get out.”

“Castiel,” she drawls. “So, that's who's been poking my boys—and _not_ in a sexy way. Got a bone to pick with you, moose. After what you did to my poor dog.”

Meg rolls her eyes. “You gonna talk us to death or get down to it already?”

The Queen of Hell smiles coldly. “There’s my whore. I’m not here for my dearly departed, though. I'm here for the stone with the funny scribbles on it.”

“That's not gonna happen,” Sam snaps.

She grins. “Love it when you get all tough, big boy. Touches me right where my bikini goes,” she purrs with a wink before pulling out her angel blade.

Meg turns to him. “Go. Save your brother…and my unicorn,” she nods and he quickly hurries inside.

The Queen of Hell nods toward him. “Did Timon and Pumbaa…tell you their big plan? Did they share that little chestnut with you? They mean to close the Gates of Hell, sweetheart. They mean to kill me and all the demons—you included.”

But the blond only smiles. “You had me at ‘kill you,’ Crowley.”

She nods, unsurprised, and lunges forward with the blade.

* * *

 

Meg is on the grounds, beaten bloody, in minutes. Crowley yanks her up by her jacket collar. “I could beat on you for eternity,” she mutters.

“Take all the time you want, you pig,” the demon snaps, weak but smugly defiant as ever.

Both glances back when they hear the Impala car doors opening and shutting.

“No Cas in the back seat. Your stone is long gone,” Meg realizes and snatches the angel blade quickly—stabbing her through the arm.

Crowley shouts in surprise, but grabs it back and throws Meg to the ground, standing upon her throat. “So’s your unicorn, dearie,” she mutters.

Meg snarls. “At least I got to see mine once more,” she grinds out.

The Queen of Hell sneers viciously and stabs the blade into Meg’s stomach. The blond demon gasps and dies.

Long overdue.

* * *

 

When she enters the crypt, she isn’t surprised at what she finds. “Naomi… Fancy meeting you here. Haven't seen you in a dark age. Love the haircut.”

She stares calmly. “How's the shoulder?” she asks in response, crossing her arms.

“Just a flesh wound,” the demon shrugs. “Now, I don’t have the tablet, and if you’re here, neither do you. Which means that your Castiel is in the wind with our prize…If I didn't know you better, I'd say you're losing your touch, darling,” she adds lightly.

Naomi’s gaze sharpens. “Castiel isn’t in the wind. He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to do—protect the tablet.”

“Even from you?” she scoffs, but raises her hands in apology when Naomi straightens and glares. “Easy, love. If you remember our time in Mesopotamia the way I do, you know I’m a lover, not a fighter.” She winks smugly at the principality.

Naomi rolls her eyes at the reminder—a surprisingly human gesture, Crowley notes with interest. “What do you want, you cockroach?”

“Oh, you know what talking dirty does to me, love,” she purrs and grins. “Maybe we can make a deal before this gets _truly_ bollocksed. I mean, I must have something that you want…” she pauses when she realizes the other angel had vanished.

“Tart stole my move,” she grumbles sourly.

* * *

 

There aren’t many being who can claim the ability to ruffle Naomi’s feathers. Crowley is, unfortunately, one of the few, to her dismay.

Now, she’s an uncomfortable reminder of mistakes.

Once—an eon ago, really, she was a sister, a friend. They had similar duties and often interacted in administrative responsibilities. Both were to the point, capable, distant angels, and so Naomi and Sariel had gotten along quite well.

Learning that her friend had fallen, so long ago, had hurt. She couldn’t believe it initially. Until Michael summoned her to alter Aziraphale’s memory and remove any hint or thought of Sariel.

That was one of her duties, was it not? She was following orders—she was doing what was right. So why does her chest feel heavy at the mere memory of it?

Somewhere around a millennium later, she would wonder if it was guilt or doubt, but forced away any such notion. Orders were orders.

It wasn’t until Mesopotamia that Naomi met…well, that which had once been her sister. Crowley, she called herself then, with hooded eyes and a cunning smirk.

Seeing her sister—Sariel, so powerful, so wise, so great—reduced to that… It pained the angel, though she hid it well under her usual polite smiles and business-like manner.

Celestial being or not, she had retained her razor wit despite the fall, which was refreshing in a nostalgic way—the rare chance to actually use her full wit and cunning against another, even if it was in something as pedantic as banter.

As they argued and exchanged clever repartee, Naomi could recognize more and more of her sister remaining in the demon. She didn’t seem to remember her angelic life much, no, but much of her core personality was still there, regardless of how her grace had changed with the fall. Joking and nonchalant as she seemed, Crowley still possessed her focused drive and manipulative acumen. Still keen and clever and wise, and soft in the same places, though her walls had been added to.

That glimpse of Sariel…

Distressed her, though she was loath to admit such a thing, even to herself. And it was enough to make her _hope_ , somehow, that she could get her sister back—that she could remind Crowley of their Father’s mission, of Aziraphale if she needed to—

She had been wrong to hope such a thing.

Her sister was gone. Only Crowley remained—a demon, a fallen angel, a being of evil. Not the Angel of Death and Healing. Not the sister who had assisted her with managerial orders, who had used taciturn jibes as terms of endearment, who understood her frustrations with helping raise the younger angels.

Naomi had been weak, had allowed her judgment to fail, had lowered her guard knowingly around a demon. The time they’d spent together, though brief, was too much. She didn’t really care for the tryst that she’d been misguided into by Crowley, but it was somewhat humiliating—even if the demon didn’t let that bit of information spread, thankfully.

For a moment, she had doubted her orders and had tried to look past a demon’s nature. Never again.

* * *

 

After a bit of searching and spells, she tracks the Winchesters to a small town in Missouri. It’s late and, watching invisibly, she observes Dean at a bar while Sam is elsewhere. The elder Winchester is only on his second beer but seems to have decided upon an evening of drunkenness—and, judging by how he eyes the lovely blond bartender, drunken pleasure.

Never let it be said Crowley let an opportunity go to waste.

Even when she really just wants to go home, bury herself in bed, and sleep. But she can’t do that. What kind of succubus would she be if she let this opportunity slide?

Were you to ask Crowley, she wouldn’t consider herself a particularly sexual creature. She could care less about the brief fleeting pleasure of sex (because really she could achieve that just fine by herself), save with Aziraphale.

But she used sex as a weapon. As befitting one of her station, of course.

No she didn’t really care for seductions, but…there was a power in it. With humans, physical intimacy leaves one so vulnerable—both bodily and emotionally—and there’s a power in that. It reminds her of a line from the prostitutes in Les Mis—“ _See them with their trousers off they’re never quite as grand_.” And wasn’t that the truth.

If there was something she enjoyed, it was having the upper hand in a situation. She would use any method to make her marks uncomfortable, to create another disadvantage for them.

Sex, beauty, and sensuality was one way to achieve that.

Weapons, just like anything else in life. Tools. Means to an end.

Although in this case…it was less of a weapon, more of a way to some later amusement and making a point.

So Crowley quickly becomes a redhead with sultry features and a curvaceous form. In jeans and a simple faded Queen concert t-shirt, she blends in easily with the rest of the bar patrons.

She sweeps in and seats herself near Dean, a stool between their respective seats.

“Whiskey, on the rocks, please,” she asks the bartender who nods and quickly brings her the drink. She wonders if the English accent will be enough of a hint. Apparently not.

Crowley sighs, rubbing her temples as if in exhaustion.

“Long day?” She hears.

Casting a glance to her left, she catches Dean’s interested gaze. “You can say that again. I’m driving home from a family reunion and my car broke down.” She glances at his tired face. “Long day for you, too?”

“Yeah…uh, brother and I are on a hunting trip. Didn’t go so well.”

She hums in sympathy. “Sorry to hear that. Oh, er, I’m Anthea,” she smiles charmingly.

“Dean,” he offers pleasantly and glances to her shirt. “So you a fan of Queen, huh?”

She grins and leans in toward him. “Immensely. What about you?”

He talks and they chat as he finishes off a couple more beers and she drinks another glass of whiskey.

 

It doesn’t take long for them to stumble to the hotel across the road to the room he’s occupying for the night. 

The door bangs open, knocked aside by their hurried snogging, and Crowley is pleased to find the Moose absent.

He tastes like cheap booze and smells of smoke, which suits her just fine. His mouth is hot and his tongue quick on her mouth and she groans, clutching his shoulders.

As they fall into his bed, clothes are being tossed elsewhere as they rush to reveal each other’s skin. Dean is quick to remove her bra, grabbing her breasts and massaging them with greedy hands. Holding himself above her, she’s pinned underneath him, squirming in her jeans and damp panties.

She mewls loudly when he sucks on one of her nipples, teasing with his tongue, and her hands are fisted in his hair.

“You like that?” He teases with a grin, nipping all over her breasts.

She snorts. “I’ve had better.”

He pauses, glancing up at her quickly. “That a challenge?”

“What do you think?” She replies lowly, grinding up against the bulge in his pants.

The hunter grins and a hand unbuttons her jeans, slipping into her pants. “Challenge accepted,” he grins and pulls her in for another kiss. He isn’t one to be outdone or beaten, even in bed it seems, she realizes as he pins her arms above her head.

His fingers sink right into her, thumb circling her clit, and she throws her head back and gasps. His mouth wanders down her jaw to her neck given the opportunity.

“God, you’re already so wet,” he groans smugly.

She nips his shoulder, not hesitating to leave marks. “Don’t get cocky, darling!”

“Cocky, huh?” He repeats, grinding his denim-covered dick against her thigh. “Thought that was what you’d like.”

She chuckles, nails scraping down his bare back. “We’ve got all night.”

It isn’t long before she’s writhing on three of his fingers, gasping out the hunter’s name desperately as she clutches his back.

Who knew a Winchester would be so good in bed. She would’ve been tapping this all along had she known.

But it’s also a matter of pride at this point and he’s looking far too pleased with himself. It catches him off guard when she rolls him over and slithers down his chest, mouthing his skin as she goes, until she reaches her prize and shoves his pants down to free his cock.

“Oh God!” He chokes out as she swallows him down to the root. She smirks around her mouthful of dick and laves it with her tongue. “Jesus Christ!”

She releases his cock to look at him and raise an eyebrow. “Goodness, Dean. There’s only one name I should be hearing from you right now and it’s not a deity, though I’m flattered by the mistake.” She takes him back into her mouth before he can respond coherently and what escapes him is only a strangled groan.

Crowley continues, pleased with herself, and waits until he’s nearly on the precipice…at which point she drops his cock and climbs up to return to his mouth.

“Tease,” he mutters into the kiss.

She snorts. “Dean, you’re going to cum in my cunt or not at all.”

“Have it your way then,” he agrees and flips her over onto her back as he produces a condom from his pocket.

She’s wet and hot and waiting for it and whines when he makes her wait. “Dean…fuck me, now!” She snaps sharply.

Finally, he does and sinks into her. Both groan.

“Fuck—Anthea,” he grunts as she shudders around him.

She smirks. “Enjoying yourself, Dean?” His choked groan is enough of a reply.

They don’t last long—screaming, writhing, taunting. To her surprise, Squirrel is one of the best lays she’s had in a long time.

He’s asleep soon after: a combination of post-coital exhaustion and her own influence.

The demon smirks at his sleeping form and presses her lips to his cheek, careful to leave a vivid imprint of her lipstick upon his skin. Crowley leaves smugly, proud of the accomplishment.

But only after taking a couple photos on her mobile. Honestly, it’s too good of an opportunity to miss. And what does one expect? She’s a demon, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about in canon, but in this story, there was definitely some Crowley/Naomi in Mesopotamia. *wiggles eyebrows*   
> (If you want my logic, it was an attempt from Naomi to discern how much of Sariel was left in Crowley and...well, Crowley took advantage of the situation. As she always does.)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Minor Character Death, Violence, Torture, and (of course) self-loathing alcoholism.

“You’re the Winchesters,” the reaper says knowingly, grinning.

Dean shifts suspiciously. “Sorry. Have we met?”

He shrugs. “I am the reaper who took Bobby Singer to Hell.”

“Bobby in Hell?” Sam cuts in. “We burned his bones. Once we did that, it was over. End of story.”

Ajay hums. “Mmm... Not necessarily.”

“No, no, no, ‘cause, see,” Dean explains. “Bobby was on the good side of things, and good guys go to the penthouse.”

“Usually, mostly,” he shrugs. “Depends on who you know, what palms get greased. I mean, if you’re on the Queen of Hell’s list…” he shakes his head with a frustrated sigh. “Man, I brought him there myself—thought the bitch would appreciate it—did I get a 'thank you'? A bonus? Nope—nothing.”

* * *

 

At the time, she thought nothing of the moose killing her hound. Not really.

But now…she is worried. The Winchesters wouldn’t invade Hell lightly.

And the demons around her are moronic as usual. Greyson, unfortunately, is away presently, leaving her with dimwits. “Am I the only one who sees the urgency of this situation?” she screams.

“Ma’am—” the demon tries.

She ignores her. “Something is going on. My Hellhound has been killed. Winchester jumbo size is trying to break into the mother ship. And that Prophet of theirs is madly translating away. _Add it up_!”

The demon nods. “I will, ma’am.”

She turns to sneer. “Where did we get you, huh? Temp agency?” she rolls her eyes. “I need Kevin Tran, and I need his half of the tablet. Apparently, his half has the good stuff, where mine has the acknowledgements and author bio.”

“It will be done.”

Crowley scowls. “It had better be. _Find that kid_.”

* * *

 

When she senses Sam’s departure from Hell—with him Bobby’s soul—she immediately tracks down the boys and interrupts their reunion.

“…So, uh... Bobby—how—how’d he hold up down there?”

Sam shrugs. “He’s good, surprisingly. Mostly bored—wasn’t tortured or anything, just left alone. Ornery as hell, of course.”

“As he should be,” Dean agrees with a nod. “Let’s put that old man where he belongs.”

The moose rolls up his sleeve and begins the incantation. The bluish-purplish-white light that rises is beautiful, even to Crowley’s eyes.

But…she can’t let that happen, so she catches it quickly. “What the hell?” Dean mutters.

“Hello, boys,” she greets and they jump. The Queen of Hell glances upward. “Bobby Singer—I’d know you anywhere.”

Dean glares. “Let him go, Crowley. He doesn’t belong in Hell.”

The demon smiles patronizingly. “He does if _I_ say he does. I mean, I never intended to get him in the first place but…well I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, yeah?”

She shrugs and they rush at her. “Really?” she mutters and flings them away into two trees, pinned in place. But she pauses when the soul is snatched from her suddenly. “What?”

When she turns to find Naomi’s smug face, she groans. “Oh, come on!”

“Let me see if I’ve interpreted the situation correctly,” the angel responds coolly. “The Winchesters have freed an innocent from Hell, to which you are wrongfully trying to return it.”

Crowley glares. “Siding with _them_ , Naomi? After all we’ve been through? You don’t know those two. Before they’re done, we’ll _both_ be locked away. Or dead.”

“I’m just hoping they lock you away, dear,” she replies icily. “The rest I’ll figure out.”

“ _Bureaucrat_ ,” Crowley sneers spitefully, still knowing how to ruffle her feathers, no matter the time that had passed since their last meeting. “You’re fighting outside your weight class, love.”

Suddenly, Naomi’s smugness has sharpened into anger. “ _Don’t_ call me a _bureaucrat!_ ” she snarls.

“If the shoe fits,” Crowley snaps and leaves, beaten.

* * *

 

Later, she reappears in the boys’ hotel room that night. “Hello, boys,” she coos, waking them. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad.”

“What do you want?” Dean snaps.

Crowley smiles at their hostility. “I made a deal and I must keep it boys. So—a gift to you from me,” she replies and snaps her fingers.

“ _Bobby?!_ ”

“What?”

She laughs at their incredulity, even as the gruff alcoholic glares at her for it. “I made a deal with Bobby dear. One of you boys get him out…I’d bring him back properly.”

Bobby nods slowly to her. “Thanks.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Don’t mention it. _Ever_.”

* * *

 

The Winchesters have two successes under their belt—killing her hound and rescuing Singer. She hasn’t a clue what else they must do, but she isn’t willing to find out.

 

It’s too easy to snatch up Kevin, to trick him into thinking he’s still in that pathetic boat. A quick trick with the short term memory, a couple basic illusions—and it’s even easier to pass two demons off as the brothers. Kevin is too wrapped up in the now-complete tablet, too medicated, sleep-deprived, and manic to notice anything amiss.

“So, it’s three trials,” she murmurs to herself. “Three trials and the Winchesters get to ‘lock the gates of Hell on my ass forever’…hmm.”

 _Well_.

 

With Kevin under her thumb, she turns her attention to the angel tablet again.

When one of her double agents in Heaven informs her that Naomi has found Castiel, she zaps there quickly.

“Why?” Naomi demands, her back to the Queen. “Why are you doing this? Let us put the tablet back where it should be.”

“I need to protect it,” Castiel replies.

“From the angels?”

“From all of us,” he maintains, unshakeable in his belief.

And isn’t he a wise one? Nevertheless, Naomi would never allow him to keep it from her. Crowley stood the best chance at protecting the tablet.

The principality glares down at her quarry. “I’m just going to have to pull you apart, aren’t I?”

That’s her cue, really—Crowley shoots the lackey angels with her special weapon and smiles as Naomi regards her with horrified anger. “Naomi, darling. Miss me?” She holds up the gun proudly. “Do you like it? I had my R&D people melt down one of your angel blades, cast it into bullets. Seems to do the trick.”

“How _dare_ you,” Naomi growls coldly.

She laughs. “I’m the daringest devil you’ve ever met, love. As if you didn’t know that already.”

Suddenly, the angel begins to glow with power. Crowley points the gun calmly. “We’ve been here before, haven’t we? Let’s see who blinks first.”

And she shoots, but Naomi vanishes just in time.

“Damn,” she shrugs, unsurprised, and strolls over to the trench coat-wearing angel. “Hi, Cassie.” He glances at the surviving angel, who merely watches. “That’s right, Cas. I got me an angel on the payroll. It’s that kinda universe, these days…” She shrugs and shoots him in the stomach before looking to Ion. “Now grab him and follow me.”

Once in her office, Ion pushes Cas down in a chair while she perches comfortably on the edge of her desk. “Just wanted to take a moment away from the main action to chat with my old business partner,” she grins.

Clutching his bloody wound, he stares at her, making her roll her eyes. “Oh, you won’t die just yet. Takes a _painfully_ long time to bleed out from the gut.”

He shakes his head. “You can do whatever you want, Crowley. I will never tell you where I buried the tablet.”

The Queen of Hell nods. “I know, Cassie dear. I know. Luckily, I don’t believe you’ll have to. See, I’ve been getting regular updates from my…expensive friend here. Naomi should have caught you out of the gate, seeing as lately she’s been knuckles-deep in that melon of yours. She thinks that your touching the tablet has broken her spell over you, hmm?” She purrs, petting his head gently.

“The tablets weren’t meant for the angels, and they weren’t meant for _you_ ,” he glares, jerking away from her hand.

She chuckles and strokes his cheek nevertheless. “She’s got a lot on her plate, so you can’t fault her for missing it. I was thinking to myself, ‘self, if Cas got away from her by touching the tablet, why would he ever _stop_ touching the tablet?’

“And then I thought to myself, ‘self…he _hasn’t_ stopped touching the tablet, now has he?’” she grins and leans down to plunge her hand into his stomach. He screams, but she eventually pulls out the angel tablet from the incision in his abdomen.

“Oh, you’re a pip, you are,” she mutters, but is interrupted by her mobile ringing. “This is the Queen,” she answers the call.

It’s fake Sam and Dean. “ _The kid told us where the other half was, but it…wasn’t. Dab of crap tricked us, sent us into some kind of Hunter mousetrap_.”

“You jackasses, you’re ruining my streak,” she snarls and hangs up. Let them rot there, maybe they’d learn a lesson. She glances at Ion. “Watch him. I’ll be right back.”

* * *

 

She literally blows open the doors and waltzes into the little set. “You little _prat_ ,” she snarls, hands still bloody as she holds the angel tablet. “Having fun yet?” She spits, setting the bloody rock on an open book.

Sitting, calmly eating barbecue, the prophet glares. “Fuck you.”

“Am I seeing this? How did you figure it out?”

He shrugs. “It started when they forgot the secret knock. But really, it—it was the way they acted. I don’t think on their best day Sam and Dean would go into town and get me a barbecue dinner, not when there are leftover burritos in the fridge.”

Crowley stares. “So…my demons were too _polite?_ ” she asks in utter disbelief.

Kevin shrugs, chuckling. “Yeah.”

“Son of a whore,” she mutters. Her actors are going to be her breakfast tomorrow morning.

“You know the Winchesters are up to the Third Trial? That they’re gonna shut the door on Hell?” he asks conversationally.

She snorts. “I’m not worried, kiddo.”

The teen picks up the demon tablet. “You have no idea what’s on this demon tablet. Right, the power you could have gotten with this, if you weren’t running around like a chicken with his head cut off…”

“You think I can’t make you tell?” she asks incredulously.

He snorts. “I know you can’t. And you do too.”

“You know what?” she asks calmly. “I’ve already won. I have the angel tablet, you little smudge. And I got deals and plans up the jacksie. But…I don’t…need… _you_ ,” she whispers, but sighs and straightens. “Do you have _any_ idea, Kev—any idea what sealing the gates of Hell would do?” she asks, curious and calm like a true serpent. “The ripple effect it would cause? On earth? For humans?

“ _Do you?_ ” she spits, grabbing him by the front of his shirt.

Suddenly, a white light emanates from the boy until she is thrown back, skidding across the floor. When she sits up, the prophet is gone.

* * *

 

With Kevin and her half of the demon tablet gone, her next move is easy.

They will doubtlessly be attempting the Third Trial soon—her last chance to stop them. She doesn’t know what it could be—but it is doubtlessly something to do with Hell, its inhabitants, or its produce. So she strictly orders all demons to stay as far away from the Winchesters or any of their associates.

Thankfully, there is a sudden increase in the number of demons residing safely in Hell. Ruminating on the issue in her office, she considers how to deal with the issue…when her eyes fall on a certain book series on her shelf.

A slow grin curls her lips.

Playing nice hasn’t worked. Time to play dirty.

Desperate times and all that, after all.

* * *

After a bit of reading and quick work, she calls the moose.

“Hello, lover,” she purrs.

“ _Crowley_.” Oh, she can hear the scowl.

Distantly, she hears an incredulous female voice. “ _Crowley?!_ ”

“ _Yeah, Queen of Hell._ ” Dean snaps impatiently.

“ _This is a_ joke _, right?_ ”

After a moment, Sam tells her, “ _Hold on_.” The beep signals that she’s on speaker. “ _How'd you get this number?_ ”

She reclines lazily in her chair, grinning, with her feet propped on her desk. “Ah, first things first—what are you wearing, darling?”

“ _Oh, okay, hanging up now. Hang up_ ,” Dean snaps.

She sighs. “Fine. Ruin the fun. You like to bend 'em right over, don't you? Well. This isn’t a social call. I was wondering. You lads been reading the papers, say,  _Denver Times_  from yesterday? No? Well, you should. It’s side-splitting…Oh, what the hell—I’m _sexting_ you an address. Check it out. Then we'll talk. Cheerio.”

“ _Wait, what? Crowley_?”

The Queen hangs up.

Now…she continues with the plan and waits.

* * *

 

She texts hints and addresses, just waiting for them to realize.

Privately, she hopes they realize and give in quickly, as to save as many as they can but…they aren’t exactly observant. Thankfully, she doesn’t get through too many books before she calls again.

“ _What the hell are you doing, Crowley?_ ” Sam demands instantly.

The demon snorts. “Oh, Moosie, isn’t it obvious? I'm killing everyone you've ever saved—the damsels in distress, the innocent whippersnappers, the would-be vampire chow— _all_ of them.”

“ _How do you even know_ —”

She interrupts Dean. “I have my sources and a cracking research team, shall we say,” she laughs, eying the stack of novels on her desk. “When you boys hit a town, you tend to leave a mess. Now, you're probably wondering why my droogs aren't in there giving you the bum’s rush, so let’s brass these tacks, shall we? I'm gonna gut one person every twelve hours until you bring me the Demon Tablet and stop this whole trials nonsense.”

“ _We don't have the tablet. Kevin took it and_ —” Sam tries.

Crowley snorts. “I took Kevin. Then someone took him back. Word from the cloud is that it wasn’t Heaven. So either the cutest little Prophet in the whole world is with you two lads, or you better find him tout-bloody-suite because time, she is a-wasting. About now, you’re thinking of ways to stop me. You won’t be able to, but you’ll try because that's what you do. You—you _try_. So, time for an object lesson. Indianapolis, the Ivy Motel, room one-one-six. You have fifty-seven minutes.”

She hangs up.

* * *

 

Fifty-seven minutes later, she rings again.

“ _Crowley_ ,” Dean growls.

She grimaces but forces her tone to remain gleeful. “Five…Four… _Tres_ … _Zwei_ … _uno_.” She hears the woman’s gasping and Sam’s concerned shouts. “She's dying, and there's nothing you can do about it,” she informs them coldly.

“ _You bitch!_ ” Dean shouts.

The demon shrugs. “More of a witch in this case. I know a few tricks.”

“ _It's a spell_ ,” Sam realizes. “ _Find the hex bag_.”

“I thought of sending in a few of my bruisers, really letting them go to town. But then, well, trial one was kill a Hellhound. Trial two was rescue a soul from the pit,” she counts down and shrugs. “So, from here on, I'm gonna keep everything hell-related—demons, et cetera—away from _you_. Safe side and all that—plus, I just thought it seemed fitting. From what I understand, Sammy took that bird’s breath away. What's the line? ‘ _Saving people, hunting things—the family business_.’ Yeah? Well, I think the people you save, they're how you justify your pathetic little lives. The alcoholism, the collateral damage, the pain you’ve caused—the _one_ thing that allows you to sleep at night, the one thing is knowing that these folks are out there, still out there happy and healthy because of you, you great, big, _bloody_ _heroes_!” she sneers, lip curling.

Still the woman is gasping for air in the background, dying.

“They’re your life’s work, and I’m going to rip it apart _piece by piece_ because I can, because you can’t stop me, and because when they’re all gone, what _will_ you have left? You want to keep those people alive. I want complete and utter surrender. The tablet, the trials—you’ll give them up, or we’ll keep doing this dance to the Devil’s Trill. Your choice, my darlings…”

With that ominous warning, she hangs up and tosses the phone onto her desk, downing a shot of whisky quickly.

Well, how’s that for a villainous monologue?

There was no way to tell them the truth—they’d _never_ believe her. Not really. They’d think it was a trap. The truth was out—so what other option did she have?

She _couldn’t_ let them seal Hell. Earth would merely become Hell 2.0 because of all the vengeful spirits piling up in the Veil.

So Crowley takes a long swig of whisky from the bottle and hopes they surrender soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, bad news folks.  
> I will no longer be updating every week as I have been. Because of university, personal issues, and my mental health, I'll be taking more time to update.   
> Don't worry, it should be no more than every two weeks. I do feel bad, but - hey, at least we've got Supernatural on TV for now. So, there's that.   
> Enjoy, and be sure to tell me what you think of Crowley and the fic.   
> Lots of love! -Teal


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The dead have a claim on us even heavier than that of the living, for they cannot hear our explanations, and we cannot ask their forgiveness.” ~ A Letter of Mary, Laurie R. King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: usual depression and unhealthy mental state, implied suicidal intentions, and canon-typical violence.

She takes her male form before going to the restaurant, a rare choice but worthy to get at this target. One so close to the Winchesters and Bobby, aware of the supernatural too, and oh so lovely and wounded.

“I’ve lost someone too,” the demon murmurs, reaching out to lay a hand on the woman’s in a moment of sincere emotion. She hurries off to the loo, embarrassed by her tears.

Damn. At this point, she doesn’t want to kill the woman, but at least she knows it won’t come to that. The boys would never allow it.

“You have less than one minute before a very dear, attractive, slightly tipsy friend of yours snuffs it,” she tells Dean in lieu of greeting after answering her mobile.

The confusion is audible in his voice. “ _Crowley?_ ”

“Who else, you moron?” she growls.

He slams a hand down on a table, or so she assumes by the noise. “ _Call it off, Crowley!_ ”

The demon smiles. “Because…?”

“ _Because it’s over, you bitch. We want a deal_.”

She smiles. “Thirty seconds…”      

“ _We stop the Trials, you stop the killing!_ ” the elder Winchester snarls.

But she could get so much more from this deal. “I want the demon tablet, the _whole_ demon tablet.”

“ _Fine_ ,” is the growled response. “ _But we get the angel_ _tablet!_ ”

Her eyebrows rise. “On what grounds?”                 

“ _On the grounds that you’re a douchebag and no douchebag should have that much power!_ ” He pauses. “ _Deal or not_?”

The Queen of Hell smirks and extinguishes the candle between two fingers. “First I need to hear two words… _I surrender_.”

“ _I surrender, you bitch!_ ”

“Well, you just saved the life of dear Sheriff Jodie Mills,” she informs him.

Bobby’s voice comes in from nowhere. “ _Crowley, don’t you dare touch her!_ ”

She sighs. “Bobby dear…I just told you I won’t. Now. We meet tomorrow. We bring our respective tablets and prepare to seal a deal. See you then. Kisses.”

* * *

 

They meet in Bobby’s salvage yard—the boys, Bobby, and Crowley.

“Hello, boys.”

They turn. “Back to your usual meatsuit, then?” Bobby grunts.

“You could say that. Only the best for you boys,” she winks saucily. “What’s that old expression…success has many fathers…but failure is a Winchester?” She chuckles. “Where’s the stone?”

Dean steps forward, glaring furiously. “You show us yours, we show you ours.”

The demon gives an affronted expression as she pulls her coat closer around her, hiding her cleavage, as if fearful for her virtue. “Really, Dean—I’m trying to conduct a professional negotiation and you want to talk tits and dangly bits? _The stone. Now. Slowly._ ”

 Sam reveals it to be hidden in his coat. She smiles and flashes her tablet in a similar location.

“The contract?”

There are few things she truly gets to enjoy these days, but she enjoys the look on their faces when the contract unfurls over the ground. It’s even better than Dick Roman’s when he saw their contract.

“Yeah, no hidden agendas in there,” Bobby grunts.

She rolls her eyes. “The highlights? We swap tablets, you stand down from the trials forever…”

“You stop killing everyone we’ve ever saved,” Sam continues.

“Agreed,” she nods, but when Dean produces a pen to sign the contract, she tuts. “No no no. Nice try, squirrel. Moose is doing these trials. Moose signs.”

The older Winchester glares. “No, no. He’s not signing anything until I read the fine print.”

But his brother yanks the pen from his hand. “I can read it.”

“Hey, you wanted me here. I’m here. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let her screw us even more.”

_And I thought Sammy was supposed to be the lawyer…_

Her eyebrows rise. “What’s this? Trouble in paradise, boys?”

They ignore her jibe but Dean comes forward to read the entirety of the contract. It makes her impatient and she finds words leaving her mouth without much force behind them. “You know why I always defeat you? It’s your humanity. It’s a built-in handicap. You always put emotion ahead of good, old-fashioned common sense. Let’s have the big galoot sign it now, shall we?”

But as she looks to Sam, Dean takes the moment to slap a pair of handcuffs on her right wrist, the other on his own.

She stares. _Have they finally lost it?_ “Is this a _joke_? You realize all I have to do is...” She snaps her fingers, but nothing happens. Her wide eyes fly to the smirking hunters.

“Unh-unh-unh,” Dean tells her. “Demonic handcuffs, _jackass_. No flicking, no teleporting, no smoking out— _oh_ , and…uh, no deal. Which pretty much means that you're our bitch.”

The Queen of Hell is seething in moments. “Fine. You want to play chain gang? Let's,” she snarls and sucker punches him in the face. “You saddled yourself to the wrong bull, mate!”

Dean simply punches her in response, and snatches the angel tablet from her coat pocket, handing it off to Sam before grabbing her coat lapels and pulling her close, nearly lifting her from her feet. “I can do this all day, 'cause you know what? _Damn_ , it feels good! But sooner or later, you're gonna have to face it—you’re _ours_. Which means that your demon ass is going to be a mortal ass pretty damn quick.”

Her eyes fly to Bobby and Sam. “What’s he mouthing on about?”

Bobby’s gaze is grim but the moose is smug as he replies, “You’re the third trial, Crowley.”

Ice floods her veins.

She doesn’t know if it’s horror or relief.

* * *

 

A car ride in the Impala’s truck later, Crowley finds herself chained to a chair inside a devil’s trap, in what appears to be an abandoned church—if the dilapidated interior and the faint burning sensation crawling across her flesh are any indication.

But as they spray paint the devil’s trap around her, she drops the deception.

“Boys, please—just listen to me for one moment!” she cries, trying honesty desperately. “You can’t seal the gates of Hell! Do you have any idea the consequences? You shut hell—sure, you get rid of the demon problem but—there’s more in hell than just demons!”

“Like what, hellhounds?” Dean snorts.

She glares. “Like _souls_ , dumbass! Think! Close the gates of hell—that’s not just to demons. That’s to everything. Nothing gets out, nothing gets in. So human souls will no longer be able to go to Hell—what happens?”

“You’re bullshitting to save your own lily-white ass?” Dean mutters.

“ _No!_ It means those souls—the ones Heaven won’t accept—the souls of murderers, monsters, evil people—will be stranded on earth in the Veil. Forced to become ghosts. Think about who _belongs_ in hell—those souls would take to being malevolent spirits like ducks take to water. Earth would become Hell 2.0, boys! _Think!_ ”

The brothers share a glance.

“Dean,” Sam mutters reluctantly.

The elder groans. “No, I’m not going to believe her, dude. I’m not.”

“Come on, Dean—let’s at least check with Kevin or…you know who,” he mutters, with a furtive glance at the demon.

“We’re not discussing this in here,” Dean mutters and they hurry out.

Leaving Crowley still chained up in the church. Really though. The demonic cuffs _and_ an iron collar about her neck? How uncomfortable.

* * *

 

Sometime later, Sam re-enters. “I asked Kevin about what you said.”

“And? What does the little prophet say?”

“He said that…that phrase ‘sealing the gates of hell’. Well, that’s one translation he was using, but it’s not exactly the most accurate. He assured me—the Trials will only seal every demon back into Hell and keep them there. Forever. Not souls.”

Her head falls back to the headrest loudly, mouth agape.

But. That isn't…So the little prophet that could…made an error in phrasing?

All this time…

She’d been fighting them because a single phrase was _mistranslated_?

 _Fuck_.

* * *

 

She doesn’t know how they intend to make her human, but she’s sure it won’t work. They think her a simple demon who has moved up the ranks—they don’t know her most precious secret. She doesn’t know if she should inform them either.

Hearing their plan doesn’t make her feel any better.

Nor does watching the moose draw blood from his arm.

“You really think injecting me with human blood is gonna make me human?” she snorts. “Did you read that on the back of a cereal box?”

He ignores her and yanks her head to the side so he can access her neck, where he jabs the needle and injects her. She cries out in surprise then smirks when there’s no effect.

“You’re miles out of your league, Moosie. See you in an hour.”

He has no idea how wrong he is and how very out of his league he really is, the poor boy. As if that would have an effect on a Fallen Angel.

…that doesn’t really mean she wants to risk becoming human.

Fuck. She doesn’t even know if that’s true.

…she doesn’t know what to do anymore…

* * *

 

When he gives her the next injection, she snatches his arm and clamps her teeth down into his flesh until she has a mouthful of blood.

“What the hell, Crowley?!” Sam exclaims. It’s worth the punch. “Biting—seriously?!”

He storms off and she spits the blood into her hand and mutters an incantation.

“For the love of everything, whoever is hearing this—if anyone is hearing this—this is your _Queen_. Send help immediately.”

She tries not to think of the twinge she’d felt at the injection.

* * *

 

“How’re we doin’, lover-boy?” she calls to him. “Ain’t it about time for the next love injection?” She smirks, more confident with each dose that it isn’t working. She sings in mockery. “ _Ch-ch-changes_ ,” she sings, thinking of singing good old rock in her Bentley with Aziraphale beside her.“ _Just gonna have to be a different man…time may change me, but I can't trace—_ ”

The church rumbles and Crowley’s smirk widens as the floor splits and breaks the devil’s trap. She looks up at Sam’s panicking expression and snarls in satisfaction. “Did you really think you could kidnap _the Queen of Hell_ and no one was gonna notice?! Numb-nuts!”

She hears the doors fly open and— “Hello, boys.”

Crowley twists in the chair. “That’s my line, love. Hm. Abaddon—they told me you were dead.”

“ _So_ not.”

Crowley smirks. “Nice work…and the rest of the cavalry?”

“Oh, no, it’s just lil’ ol’ unkillable me.”

She watches, impressed, as the Knight sends the hunter flying. But Abaddon does not release her.

“I am your Queen,” she roars.

Abaddon stares, unimpressed. “About that—” she replies and—what is it? Punch Crowley Day? _Seriously?_

It happens several more times and her ire only grows.

“Do you know the most shocking thing about time-traveling through a closet and landing in the year 2013?” Abaddon asks as the beating continues. “Somebody thought it was a good idea to make _you_ Queen of Hell.”

She stares. With blood flying from her mouth, she shouts, “Do you know what that boy’s trying to do? He’s trying to shut the gates of Hell.”

Abaddon circles to look her in the eye. “Right now, you and I are gonna talk about a regime change,” she purrs.

The Queen snarls, furious and murderous. “ _You little whore! I am your Qu_ —” Crowley is unconscious before she registers the pain of the kick.

 

She wakes in time to see Abaddon _flambé_ and the smoke leave her vessel. Sam rights her, still in her chair, and she’s breathing heavily in relief.

“You did good back there, moose,” she sighs. “I’ll…I’ll deny it i-if you ever quote me, but I’m a proud woman. I’m proud of you.”

Sam eyes her in disbelief but he nods. “Thanks,” he replies slowly, before reapplying the devil’s trap in paint.

Her grin drops instantly. “Are you joking? I just saved your life!”

Sam just snorts. “Seriously?” he laughs in disbelieving amusement at her gall.

“Seriously? _Me_ , seriously? We just shared a foxhole, you and I. We beat back the Tet Offensive, outrun the—the Rape of Nanking _together_! And still you’re gonna do me like this?!”

She cries out as he gives her another injection in her neck. The demon flinches at the pain of it stares up at him balefully, grey eyes wide. “Aah! Aah! ‘Band of Brothers’? ‘The Pacific’? None of this means _anything_ to you? All those motels, you never once watched HBO, not once? ‘Girls’?” she tries. “You’re my Marnie, Moose. A-and Hannah—she just—she needs to be loved. She _deserves_ it!”

Crowley’s screaming at him, face twisted in emotion. There are actual tears in her eyes, sliding down her cheeks to mingle with her blood. Her whole posture has changed, curled in on herself, shoulders hunched, white-knuckled fists balled.

 “Don't we all—you, me—we deserve to be loved. I _deserve_ to be loved!” she screams, but quiets abruptly, voice cracking. “I just want to be loved. _I just want to be loved again_ ,” she whispers to herself, trembling as she gazes up at him desperately.

Sam stares, utterly confused. “Uh, what?”

As if he’d slapped her, she flinches back, awareness coming back and some of her usual demeanor resumes, as she returns his confused stare.

* * *

 

Purified blood, that’s what she was getting from him. She’d seen him go into the confessional earlier and wonders.

The Fallen Angel can feel its effects—she can’t deny it. It’s taking an effect. And she wonders, suddenly, what Zira would think. If he would think she should just allow it to do its work. Was it even possible? Could she be…cured? Humanized?

Zira…he would want that for her. They had always, in their own way, envied humanity. He’d support her becoming human like this over the risk of being killed as the Queen of Hell.

But…how? After all she’s done…all the sin she’s caused…all the lives she’s destroyed…all the evil she’s done…how could she _ever_ be forgiven?

A human’s soul could be cleansed, healed, forgiven. But she…her Grace was so stained and soiled with sin…there was no undoing that…

Slowly, haltingly, she speaks softly. “Would it be possible, Moose…I’d like…to ask you a-a favor, Sam. Earlier, when you were confessing back there…what did you say?”

She meets his eyes, knowing her face is covered in blood and tears, but not caring—she has to know. She has to ask.

“I only ask because, given my history…it raises the question… Where do I even  _start_ …to look for forgiveness? I mean…”

Strangely, the hunter is gentle when he replies. “How ‘bout we start with this?”

For a moment, Crowley simply stares. Until finally, she sighs. Whether this kills her or turns her human…she’s accepting it.

She’s had enough.

Either way, she’ll see Zira soon.

The fight leaves her and she tilts her head to the side in submission. The blood doesn’t burn this time. It’s warm and flows through her like a wave of comfort. She sighs in relief and begins to babble again, not caring enough to stop it.

“And what now, Sam? Where can I begin?” she murmurs, holding back a sob.

He shrugs, exhausted and just as clueless as she. “I don’t really know, Crowley. What’s the worst you’ve done? That’s where I started.”

A sob chokes her throat. “Zira—I—I didn’t—I couldn’t—he…I _failed_ him. And he’s dead—because of me. I was stupid and left him and he was vulnerable. Even when I try to do good—even when I help fight the apocalypse…I always pay for it, you know. I can’t do good. I can’t. It’s fighting the natural order—fighting my nature. I’m a demon—and I’m stupid to ever entertain the notion of being _good_. The delusion. So _stupid_. Because of that, Zira…He’s dead, he _has_ to be dead. He’d have found me otherwise. He’s dead and I good as killed him, Sam. It’s my fault. I swore I’d keep him safe and I didn’t. He was taken and how he’s gone. And it’s _my_ fault.”

The admission kills her. She can’t bear it, but she knows there’s no alternative. He’s dead and she is finally admitting it to herself now. She’s avoided it for so long, denied it vehemently but…he’s gone and she is finally accepting it.

She’s been hopeless for so long now, but had avoided recognizing it. Time to grow up. Time to accept it.

He’s dead.

He’s gone.

* * *

 

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, hanc animam redintegra, lustra_ ,” Sam chants and she waits.

It occurs to her, suddenly, that she has no idea if it will actually work for a Fallen Angel rather than a human-turned-demon.

“Sam,” she murmurs. “Wait, I gotta tell—”

The church doors slam open and Dean enters, stopping his brother. Crowley closes her eyes and knows she will never learn the answer.

A few minutes later, she glances through a window up to the sky and gapes in horror. Angels—hundreds—thousands of angels…falling.

All the angels are falling.

She is still alone in the church and she can’t stand to hear nothing but her own ragged breathing and sobs. Her head falls heavily against the back of the chair. Unable to bear consciousness for another minute, she slams her head back into the chair, hard enough to concuss herself.

But it works and she sinks into the silent depths of oblivion where the ghost of her angel bothers her no more.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Depression, Unhealthy Mental State, Guilt, (mostly off-screen) Torture, and Self-Harm

For so long, he’s been stuck here.

It’s hard to remember what it was like, outside.

Inside, it’s just white stone walls and iron bars. Silence. Chilly air. Emptiness and loneliness. Boredom. Nothing but one’s own mind to divert attention, to keep from losing sanity.

Even still, the silence is so loud, it seems to scream at him.

Guards would occasionally patrol the corridor, stony-faced and silent. When they look at him, it is only to sneer wordlessly in disgust at the prisoner.

Others are in neighboring cells, but they too have lost their voices to the consuming, screaming silence that filled the halls. At times, he’ll hear them shuffle around or let out a sigh.

On very rare occasions, higher angels come to look upon the prisoners, to ask questions, to sneer at the traitors.

The monotony is otherwise only broken by torture sessions. Thaddeus would drag him out of his cell to the torture chamber, where he’d be flayed and sliced and maimed and burned. Only to be healed after a few hours for the torment to restart.

He often finds himself questioning whether he is the prisoner of Heaven or Hell.

It also makes him realize that, oftentimes—despite how the angels proclaim their holy goodness and the demons their powerful cruelty—they are just as bad as each other. And isn’t that interesting. Heaven just as bad as hell.

He wonders how different their torture was…

It’s all he could do to distract himself with happier thoughts, but as time went on, it gets harder to do so. Memories fade with time.

Time…

How long has it been? Centuries? Millenia? Eons? What is time to an angel, really. Years pass in blinks and, in Heaven, it is so fluid, flowing through his fingers and he is powerless to stop the current.

Eventually, the tedium is broken. It ends.

It’s a joyful event but a painful one.

One moment, he’s curled in the corner of his cell, the next—

_Pain-pain-burning-pain-agony—_

His wings—they’re—

 _Burning_ , they’re burning away as he falls. Not just falls. He’s Falling.

The angel plummets from Heaven, tears through the sky like a meteor—as his feathers burn individually, the delicate skin underneath sizzles, as the bones crack and crumble into dust. He realizes mid-fall, somehow through the haze of suffering, that he is not the only one. All the angels are falling, too. He can hear his brothers and sisters cry out in anguish and confusion as they fall, the desperate prayers to their absent Father.

Once, he was told that Falling is the most painful thing for an angel to experience. He understands it.

He does not understand why it is happening, but he knows what is worth this pain—true pain. It’s that thought that he clings to as he plummets through the sky. That one thought, that one ever-changing face with its clever smile.

Eventually, he lands, crashing into the muddy earth and tumbling through puddles until he skids to a halt, muddy and aching and perplexed as rain pours down upon him. Slowly, rubbing tender joints and muscles as he stands, free once more…

The angel takes in his surroundings slowly and is surprised to find that he recognizes the outskirts of Leeds. Aziraphale forces himself to calm down and decides to go to London to find Crowley.

* * *

 

She wakes in the trunk of the Impala, back to her usual self. More or less.

When she thinks of her guilty babbling to Sam, Crowley flushes pink, and hopes it doesn’t come up.

The Queen of Hell is locked in the trunk for days, gagged, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. And while she knows she could easily kick out a taillight while the Hardy Boys are driving and get someone’s attention, well, what’s the point, really?

It gives her plenty of time to think.

She’s avoided thoughts of Aziraphale for so long, it’s hard to stop herself now that the dam had broken. And…it’s been years. He’s not in Hell, or on earth. And no one has seen him in Heaven. He couldn’t be in Purgatory. There was nowhere else for him to be. He…he has to be dead. It’s time she accepts it. She’s assumed it for years but…now, she has finally come to face it emotionally.

Zira is dead and it’s her fault.

She can’t change that. She can’t fix this.

But…all she’s done since the apocalypse…it was to search for him. Get more power to look more and to find him and protect him. But she didn’t and couldn’t.

He wouldn’t want her to give in to expectations—no matter if those expectations were from God, Death, humans, people in general, or the natural order. He wouldn’t want her to do ill simply because she was tired of fighting to be good.

She doesn’t want to, either. But…

Crowley is left with the sobering question of what to do now.

For once, she honestly doesn’t know.

* * *

 

They move her into a dungeon-like basement.

Her bravado has returned to mask her inner turmoil.

She winces at the squirrel rips the duct tape from her face. “Well. Hello,” she purrs, just before she is punched yet again by Dean.

“Never get tired of doing that.”

She glares flatly. “Not polite to hit a lady, you know. But I suppose it must be Punch Crowley Month. Between you, Moose, and dear Abby-girl.” Crowley pauses to glance around and notices a wall full of torture implements. “Homey. Where did you get this _fantastic_ little treehouse?”

They ignore her wit, as always. So unappreciated these days.

“Alright, here's how it's gonna go,” Sam explains. “You're giving us the name of every demon on earth, and the people they're possessing.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Am I? Doesn't sound like me,” she remarks curiously.

Sam stares. “I saw you break down, Crowley,” he tells her and her jaw tightens. “When I was trying to cure you, I know a part of you was human again, maybe still is.”

The Queen of Hell glares. “Blah blah, boohoo. Done? Good. 'Cause this is what I know. I'm not giving you _anything_. Why would I? You have no leverage, darlings. You're not gonna close the gates of Hell, because you _didn't_ , you're not gonna kill me, because you _haven't_. So what's left?”

For them or for her? What’s left?

“We have a few ideas,” Dean shrugs.

She snorts. “Torture. Brilliant. Can't wait to see Sam in stilettos and a leather bustier, really putting the S-A-M into S&M,” she sneers. “ _Honestly_ , boys. What are you gonna do to me that I don't do to myself just for kicks every Friday night?”

Exchanging a look, the brothers turn and leave. “Have fun,” Dean grunts.

The lights turn off and the doors slam shut, leaving her alone in the dark.

“Hmm. Bollocks.”

* * *

 

For a time, she avoids thinking of the Third Trial or Zira or anything remotely like feelings and humanity. She thinks about new operations and orders for her hellions. She plots out schemes and nefarious ruses, bored with her captivity. In the end, though, it’s only half-hearted.

Inevitably, her mind turns to the topics she’d rather avoid.

_“You’re the Third Trial, Crowley.”_

“… _I understand that grief, the way it tears at you and never lets go…_ ”

_“Where do I start…”_

_“You’re our bitch.”_

_“…to look for forgiveness?”_

 “ _Some hurts can’t be soothed by time, only by ourselves.”_

_“Your demon ass is gonna be a mortal ass pretty quick.”_

 “ _…You don’t have to do things just because it’s expected of you, Crowley. Whether it’s what someone you love would expect, or what people expect because you’re the Queen of Hell. So, what—that’s your title. That’s not all you are_ …”

 _“None of this means anything to you? You're my Marnie, moose. A-and Hannah, she just, she needs to be loved… She deserves it…She deserves to be loved…I deserve to be loved! I just wanna be loved…I just wanna be loved again…_ ”

She comes back to herself with a gasp, snapping herself out of such emotional flashbacks, just before the lights turn on and she hears footsteps. Crowley smiles. “Kevin?”

A pause. “Kevin, I know it’s you. I’d recognise the pitter-patter of those little feet anywhere…” He isn’t fazed. “That’s right, _run_. It’s what you do…I understand, I do. You’re, what's the word?” She smirks, plump lips curling in anticipation. “Ah, of course. _Weak_.”

He stops and her grin widens as she waits; she isn’t disappointed and the dungeon doors are forced open. “Hiya, Kev.”

Slowly, the prophet steps into the room. “So, what brings you to my boudoir, handsome?”

“You're gonna tell me how to kill a Knight of Hell.”

Crowley raises her eyebrows. “Little Abaddon giving you trouble, eh? Tell you what, you let me go, and I'll spit-roast the little whore for you. Sound good?”

He shakes his head in frustration. “You're bluffing. You don't know.”

It startles a laugh from her. “Don’t I? Oh, Kevin, Kevin, _Kevin_ ,” she purrs, crossing her legs elegantly, no matter the tears in her dress and the blood splattered across her skin and face. “Oh, I know plenty. For example, I know she’d _love_ you. Skinny, submissive…you're just her type…And mine, I suppose, depending on my mood,” she adds, half joking.

“Shut up,” he snaps.

The demon shrugs. “Fine. That's not what you came for, anyway, not _really_. What's on your mind, Kev? You can tell me. We're friends!” she purrs invitingly.

“You tortured me,” he bites out, and she can see the pain and loss haunting his gaze.

“I torture all my friends. It's how I show _love_ …” she smiles. “Well, torture with a bit of seduction on the side. Done it for ages.”

He’s shaking as he shouts, “You killed my mom!”

“Did I?” she asks softly. “I mean, are you sure? Did you ever see her body? I mean, how can you be sure she's dead?”

He lunges at her and screams as he punches her.

Quite an arm on the kid, hmm. Surprising.

But seriously, _why_ is everyone suddenly punching her? Before this month, she hadn’t been punched in decades! Now it’s…what, eight? Two total from Dean, once from Sam for the bite, several from Abaddon during the beating, and now Kevin? Really?

She coughs and spits the blood from her mouth. “You can do better than that, little man,” she taunts and follows his gaze to the wall of blades and weapons.

The hate is burning in him, but that’s okay. It can’t rival how much she hates herself.

“That's right. Let it _all_ out.”

* * *

 

She might have underestimated Kevin’s temper. And strength. And viciousness. She hasn’t taken a beating like that since her latest stint on a rack in Hell.

Her dress, once pearl grey, now ripped and bloody everywhere, is torn and barely retains her modesty, not that it really matters to her. Abaddon’s beating had done a number on it, and between being manhandled into a church, a trunk, and this dungeon, well she’s not surprised.

There’s blood covering the left side of her face, and she can feel her hair growing tacky and matted with it drying all over her scalp. And _God_ , is she going to have some serious bruising on her face and stomach. Not to mention whatever marks she has from the damn collar tight about her neck.

She’d never admit it. Not to anyone, not even Aziraphale.

But she knows, deep down.

At this point…she doesn’t even care. She’s just provoking them all to get beatings. Because the physical pain momentarily distracts her from the ache in her chest. Because she knows she deserves this pain.

As Kevin drops the hammer to the floor, she watches calmly. “There. Now that you've felt your feels, maybe we can talk…”

“No,” he replies, exhausted.

She rolls her eyes at his defiance. “Gonna make this simple, Kevin. Let me go, and I'll give you back your mother.”

The teen shakes his head. “She's dead.”

Crowley sighs. “Oh, she _wishes_ she was,” she bluffs. “After what I had my heavies do to her, she's begging for it. But when have you ever known _me_ to let anyone off easy?

“You think Sam and Dean care about her? Huh? You think they care about _you_? You are just here to serve their needs. Nothing more. I’ve seen them doing a hundred times. You're gonna lose, Kevin. _Everything_ ,” she snarls, a promise. “It's just a matter of time. When the Winchesters are done with you, they'll toss you aside without a second thought because they can. Because they think they're _special_. And because, well, there's always another prophet waiting in the wings,” she croons.

 _Oh_ , it’s like being in the Garden again, curling around Eve’s shoulders and purring doubts and promises and lies into her ear. This is what she is best at. Forget seductions of the body; The Temptress only needs her silver tongue.

“I'm the one in chains, but we’re both prisoners here, little dove. What say, you let me go, and we walk out those doors together? What say we both win?”

For a long moment, she wonders if it has actually worked.

He glares. “Fuck you.”

“Is that an offer?”

The slamming of the door is the response she gets.

* * *

 

The Hardy Boys return soon, storming into Crowley’s prison and seeing her bloody, beaten form in surprise.

“Woah. Who worked you over?” Dean asks.

She stares calmly, unimpressed. “Martin Hayward and Brandon Favors.”

“They…did this to you?” Sam guesses in confusion.

“No.” The demon rolls her eyes. _Jesus._ “They're demons. You asked for names, I'm giving you names. They're underperformers,” she shrugs, as much as she can with the collar. “Spike them, you'll do me a favour.”

“Wow. You break easy,” the elder chuckles.

“Humph,” she snorts. “Please. Your little plan to have me stew in my own…delicious juices… _pathetic_. You want intel. Maybe we can come to some kind of… _agreement_. Quid pro quo, gentlemen.”

They exchange a wary glance. “So these are what, then, freebies?” the moose asks.

“Oh, not at all. You can consider them fair trade for the… _enjoyment_ that Kevin gave me.”

Dean blinks and barks, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Crowley smiles. “He's my new favourite toy. Wind him up, _watch him go_ …” The words come from low in her throat, deep and sexual to the ear.

“You check the names, I'll go find the kid,” he tells his brother and they leave.

She won’t be alone for long. She’s ensured that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, obviously Crowley’s mental state is far, far from healthy. It’s my thought that one can’t possibly live that long without some serious mental health concerns. All those years, all those losses, all those memories. Being utterly alone, surrounded by humans who flit into and out of one’s life so easily. And Crowley…the only constant in an ever-changing world would have been Aziraphale.   
> She lost him long ago and with him, her rock for mental stability. It wasn’t a healthy dependence, of course but…it’s understandable. Now, without him, she’s lost in a sea of depression, lack of purpose, and utter confusion. She’s trying to be good, but it never works, yeah? She fights the apocalypse in GO—she is tortured in Hell and Zira is taken. She fights the apocalypse with the Winchesters—Zira is gone. She tries to get Purgatory for power to keep Hell stable and look for Zira—the Leviathans are released. She helps put the Levis away—Bobby is killed. She tries to protect the tablets and prevent Hell 2.0 from happening—it backfires on her and the angels get booted from heaven.  
> Crowley has no idea if she can even be good anymore. She has no idea who she is anymore. She doesn’t know what she wants.  
> She just wants it to stop.  
> But she can’t end it right now, so she’s provoking people into getting mad and hurting her—a form of self harm.  
> NOT a healthy state of mind at all.  
> It’s just been a downward spiral.  
> And it's only going to get worse.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't resist the temptation of Gadreel and Crowley interacting. Just think of it. So many possibilities. I had to.

“Hello, Moose,” she greets calmly and watches as Sam places a paper and a crayon on the table before her.

“You want more demon names,” she assumes plainly and crumples the paper in her fist. “I want a room with a view.”

He stares, unimpressed and silent, before he smirks and turns to leave.

“We can discuss this!” she calls amicably after him. “I'd settle for stretching my legs!”

The door slams shut. “Bollocks.”

* * *

 

Her next visitor is quite a surprise. The old witch approaches Crowley curiously. “Hello, Lovely,” she smiles, equally curious.

The Wicked Witch of the West winces as the devil’s trap burns her.

The demon tuts. “Sorry. This litter box is warded against everything, even wicked witches.” She smiles. “Big fan. Love your work.”

She gives a wordless little gasping hiss and Crowley understands. “What's the matter, darling? Cowardly lion got your tongue?” she chuckles, but the witch’s eyes flash green in warning. “Right. Enough chitchat. Must be here for a reason…Write it down so Mummy can help,” she instructs and tosses the paper and crayon to her.

* * *

 

Whistling ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, Crowley watches at the brothers enter, guns raised and ready.

“Wow. If it isn't the Scarecrow and the Tin Man. Your new houseguest—so misunderstood…” she chuckles, but scowls at the blank expressions she gets in response. “Oh come on. Neither of you saw _Wicked_? Shame.”

“What did she say to you?” Sam demanded.

She snorts. “Something along the lines of…” she hisses and then chuckles. “Not a great conversationalist—surprise, surprise.”

Dean glares. “All right, well, I'm gonna go get some holy oil and a lighter, dickbag.”

Well, if they were going to bust out the heavy artillery. “I know what she's looking for,” she offers, teasing, smirking.

“What does she want?” asks Sam slowly.

She smiles pleasantly. “I'd be happy to tell you, as soon as I get to stretch my legs.”

The brothers exchange reluctant looks and Dean grudgingly unlocks the neck cuff. Sam, meanwhile, keeps a gun trained on her.

“ _Ohhhh_ ,” she sighs sensually as she stands and stretches in a feline, sultry fashion.

Neither blink. “All right,” Sam says stubbornly. “What does the witch want?”

Crowley sighs. “Oh, boys. Give me a moment. I still need to air myself out,” she tells them, smirking in satisfaction for the movement granted to her, but they are impatient as ever and Dean shoots her squarely in the chest.

Great. _Another_ hole in her ragged dress.

“I think you’re aired out enough,” Dean snaps.

She draws the bullet out carefully and inspects the bloody metal. She glares up to Dean. “Rude,” she mutters and flicks the bullet away, smirking as it bounces off Dean’s forehead and his eye twitches.

But then concedes and holds up the paper.

“Key? What key?” Sam asks, concerned.

The demon shrugs and shakes her head. “I haven't the foggiest. Had to send her off on a merry chase before she could melt me. Told her you boys kept the keys in the kitchen. You do have a kitchen in this crap hole, don't you?”

They turn and rush out, not bothering return her restraints, though she’s still stuck in the devil’s trap. But as the door slams behind them, she smirks and nudges the table forward with a flick of her fingers. It scrapes against the floor loudly as it goes, chipping off enough of the paint for Crowley to escape.

Honestly, the idiots always leave her some way to escape. This is just the first time something’s caught her interest enough.

Her first movement of freedom is to replace her dress and clean herself up. After all, if she was going to help these dimwits against the Wicked Witch, she’d look damn fine as always.

She leaves the basement silently and follows the boys, unseen, as they join two women in the kitchen. Crowley preoccupies herself with preventing the witch from sensing her and regaining her strength after so long trapped in those demonic cuffs.

The Queen of Hell enters a room to find the boys possessed and prepared to kill the two women.

“ _HEY!_ ” she yells across the garage, and the four of them turn in confusion. “Excuse me, but if I can’t possess the boys, then you _definitely_ can’t, sweetheart.”

She flings them against a wall, though the witch’s magic allows them to recover quickly. “Go!” she snaps to the two others. “I’ll hold them off. Get the bloody witch!”

They run, clutching the ruby slippers as they go to stop the witch, not stopping to question her identity.

“ _Demon_ ,” Sam growls, stepping toward her.

“ _You can’t stop me. You don’t have the power, a lowly demon like you_ ,” Dean continues and grabs her by the neck to slam her against a wall.

She laughs harshly. “Bitch, you may be the Wicked Witch,” she snarls. “But I’m the bloody Queen of Hell. Suck on this!”

Even if it had been Dean himself who had punched her several times previously and it’s the witch in control of him now, it is immensely satisfying to punch the hunter in the jaw, hard enough to break bone. Which she does. Sam she sends to the floor with a kick to the nuts.

Their eyes flash green and they seem to come to their senses.

“What just happened?” Sam mutters. “Wait—Crowley?!”

Said demon rolls her eyes. “You little friends. They ran off to stop the witch while I held you off. Come on.”

She ignores their confusion and hurries upstairs, heels clicking as she leads them down the halls to find the women.

“Ding-dong, bitches,” the redhead says as a greeting, holding up what must be the key.

The boys sigh in relief, guns lowering.

“Uh, who are you?” the woman says as she looks to Crowley.

Her eyebrows rise. “Queen of Hell, darling.”

“Wait— _Crowley_?” she sputters then nods in acceptance of this fact. “Damn, the books were right—you _are_ hot.”

A smirk curls her lips. “Thanks, love, you’re not so bad yourself.” She winks.

Before anything else can be said, a hand clamps down on her shoulder. “That’s enough sweet talk, Crowley. Come on, back to the dungeon.”

“ _Seriously?!_ ” she exclaims. “Come on! I just fought the fucking Wicked Witch of the bloody West and kicked her arse! Well, your arses that she was possessing, but still. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?!”

Dean snorts. “N’really. By the way, thanks for m’ jaw,” he grumbles.

Crowley sighs and waves a hand, reversing the damage and pain done to both Dean’s jaw and Sam’s dangly bits. “Happy?”

“Yup,” Sam replies. “Time to go back downstairs.”

“Oh, come on!” she whines.

* * *

 

As Sam returns the cuff to her neck, she yelps as it pinches some skin. He ignores it and puts another paper and crayon on the table, leaving the now-fixed devil’s trap.

“Really, after all I did with Ms Defying Gravity?”

The lights go out.

“You’re welcome!” she shouts after him.

So much for being helpful.

* * *

 

“I've been politely asking for reading material for weeks, and this is what you bring me?” she says incredulously.

_Cuneiform?_ Really?

“Maybe something less…dead?” she suggests, sliding the paper back to Sam across the table. “I’ll pass.”

He glares. “Can you read Elamite or not?”

Crowley sighs. “It's by no means my favorite of the ancient tongues, but yes, I can. Why?”

“Will you help us read it?”

It startles a laugh from her. “Why on _earth_ would I?” she asks, genuinely curious.

Sitting on the table in front of her, he meets her eyes frankly. “Because I was there that night. I saw what humanity did to you.” She scoffs. “Like it or not, there's still a little part of you that's not a total bitch.”

Again, she laughs. “Sorry, Moose, dearie. To the last drop, I’m a bitch and I always have been. No changing that, whether I’m a demon or not, sorry.”

He nods, stands and leans over to glare at her. “Crowley, the only reason you're alive is because my brother thought you would be _useful_. So far you've done Jack.” He sighs. “Back to plan B, I guess.”

He turns to leave.

“Which is?” she asks, curious.

“Give you up to Abaddon,” the hunter replies over his shoulder.

Crowley snorts. “You think you can threaten me with that hack?! She's all fury, no finesse!”

“I'm not so sure. Our last encounter with Abaddon, she was, uh—she was pretty terrifying. Scarier than you've been in years,” Sam laughs and she growls loudly, eyes flashing red in her fury.

“Bring that to me,” she bites out.

Slowly, he does and hands the paper to her. Without her glare wavering from his face, she crumples the paper and tosses it at his face. He glares, pissed, still leaning over the table. Crowley smiles caustically and slugs him across the face. It sends him reeling to the floor.

Crossing her arms, she glares furiously. “Next time, you won’t get off so easily, Moose,” she snarls as he gets to his feet, rubbing his aching jaw. “And when I get out of here, you’ll regret that. I’ll remind you what true terror is.”

He turns to stalk out of the room.

“Enjoy the fractured jaw!” she screams after him.

Okay, definitely no more freebies. No more friendly Crowley.

* * *

 

He returns an hour later and she watches calmly. “I’ll do it,” she announces. “But I want something in return.”

“Yeah, what's that?” he asks, glaring, as he prowls forward into the light. She smirks as she sees the bruising on his face and the split lip.

“A telephone call,” she replies simply.

Sam scoffs, shakes his head, and turns to walk out the door again.

“Come on, Moose! Even Dahmer got one telephone call!”

* * *

 

The next time, it’s both Sam and Kevin who grace her presence.

“What are these?” Sam snaps, pushing the paper at her.

She smiles. “Ingredients,” she teases.

The hunter glares. “More specific, Crowley.”

“Ingredients … for a spell,” she replies smoothly. “Heart of a Nephilim. Cupid's bow. Grace of an angel.”

The boys exchange glances and Kevin lays another paper onto the table, glaring at her murderously. “The rest of them,” he demands.

Crowley sighs. “ _Phone. Call._  You'll get the rest when _I_ get paid,” she bites out then grins. “Now. Who's gonna be a dear and open up a vein?”

The Winchester leaves and quickly returns with a medical kit. She eyes the five syringes carefully, but tuts in disapproval when Sam prepares to draw his blood. “Ah, bup-bup-bup.”

He glares. “What?”

“Not yours. _His_ ,” she nods to Kevin.

* * *

 

She glares at the bowl of blood. “ _Crowley_. Your _Queen_ ,” she growls, losing her patience. “If you don't connect me to Abaddon right away, I will be forced to—”

“What? What happened?”

Her nostrils flare. “I've been placed on hold.”

* * *

 

“ _Crowley. How in the Hell are you?_ ” Abaddon greets coolly.

She glares at the bowl of blood. “Oh, you know. Busy. I hear you’re taking over. And how are the numbers?”

“ _You mean souls? I've managed to double on your projections. Now, how did I ever pull off such a feat?_ ”

Crowley bares her teeth in fury. “You're taking souls before their time. Voiding my contracts!”

“ _That's right. I'm taking it all down, brick by brick. It's over. The days of Crowley, the queen of bureaucrats—are_ done,” Abaddon spits back.

“You... ganky... putrescent... _skanger_ ,” she snarls. The Knight laughs softly. “It may look like bean-counting to you, it may lack a certain adolescent flair, but my way…w _orks_! You think you can control Hell with _chaos_ alone, without the support of those who are still loyal to _me_?!” she screams, nearly frothing at the mouth.

“ _No one's seen you in weeks, and last I saw you, Howdy and Doody had you tied up nice and tight. Seems to reason, they've turned you into a kennel dog. How does it feel, Crowley, to be the Winchesters' bitch?_ ” She snarls wordlessly, kicking and fighting pointlessly against her restraints. “ _It's been fun indulging in your bluffs, but we both know you have no_ real _authority left, no leverage. You have nothing to offer me. You have—nothing_.”

She ices her temper and restores her calm, conscious of the hunters’ eyes upon her. “Your way will backfire. You. Will. _Burn_.”

“ _I can't wait_.”

She pushes the bowl away with shaking hands, her face white and lips pursed tightly.

The demon knows she’s beaten for now. As long as she’s here—as long as she’s the Winchesters’ bitch…Abaddon is Queen.

That can’t be allowed to continue.

“Crowley?” Sam prompts, almost concerned, waiting for her ire.

It doesn’t come. “Bring me the translations,” she says softly, dangerously. “I keep my agreements.”

When the papers are placed before her, she blinks to focus and reads. “ ‘Obtain the ingredients – heart, bow, Grace.’ Blah, blah, blah. ‘Mix until the smoke shall rise from the ashes, casting the angels from heaven.’ Blah, blah—Oh. Hm. It's irreversible…”

 _Interesting_.

“What?”

She looks back up at Sam. “This spell can't be undone. The new world order—we're stuck with it. Mind me asking who did the spell?”

“Metatron,” he snaps. They leave, not noticing that she’s palmed one of the syringes.

She’s already lost Hell. What’s the point, now? She’s a prisoner, stripped of her power, stuck halfway to humanity, of all things.

It doesn’t matter so she lets herself feel the itch, feel the crawling under her skin, the buzz in her head—yearning for blood.

Crowley injects the blood into her arm and lets out an orgasmic moan as it hits her system.

If the Hardy Boys weren’t going to turn her human, well, she’d just have to try to do it herself. She wasn’t just doing to stay here.

Crowley was nobody’s bitch.

* * *

 

It’s weeks before she has company again.

She regrets stealing the blood. As glorious as the high was…withdrawal is infinitely worse. It makes a buzz in her head, making it impossible to think of anything except getting another hit. Being trapped and collared in a chair is even more terrible because of how jittery she feels, like she wants to run and dance and fidget and— _anything_ , if only she could _move!_

It surprises Crowley to find Dean and Castiel to be her visitors. “Hello boys.”

But Dean is focused and all business. It makes her wonder what’s happened during her imprisonment. “Here's the deal—you're gonna tell us how to hack an angel, and I'm gonna give you some of the good stuff.” He holds up a full syringe and pats his arm. “Human blood, fresh from the tap. Word is you're jonesing for it.”

Her nose winkles. “Please. I'll pass,” she snaps. Couldn’t they just leave her be and let her die? Or just let her go?

The angel steps forward. “What do you want, then?”

“Well, for starters… A massage. Between the sitting and the shackles, a body gets a little stiff.”

He recoils in disgust. “Yeah, I ain't rubbing you.”

She flips the bird at him with a level glare. “God, no, wasn’t going to ask _you_. Get Kevin. His tiny fists can really work wonders on—”

“Kevin is dead.”

The words die on her tongue; they taste like ash. “Oh…I, I'm sorry to hear that.” Somehow, she really is.

“Don't pretend you care,” Castiel replies harshly, stalking forward. “You tried to kill him.”

Not bothering attempt to convince them of her sincerity, she sighs, leaning back in the chair. “I told him this was gonna happen. I was the only person who tried to warn him. I told him to run.”

“From what?” Dean asks.

Crowley glares furiously. “ _You_ ,” she spits. “How many times am I gonna have to say this? People in your general vicinity don't have much in the way of a life-span.

“Now, I can't teach you how to crack open an angel. It's more…art than science. You need a careful hand or you’d accidentally kill the angel. I can’t teach you…But I can do it _for_ you. All I ask in return is a little field trip. Dying for some fresh air. Chains on, naturally,” she offers pleasantly.

“No.”

She straightens in surprise. “No? Of course not. Because if I'm plan A, I'm sure you have a totally viable, much better plan B.”

Castiel pulls Dean aside. “You can't be considering this.”

“With the chains on, she can't do anything,” the hunter admits slowly.

“It's Crowley. She can _always_ do something,” Cas replies intently.

Well. Featherhead knows her better than she thought.

For a moment, she watches them, their proximity to each other, the intensity of their eye contact. And she wonders. It reminds her of, well, her and Aziraphale’s relationship, even before it was romantic. There may be nothing happening between these two, but…there’s a connection and it’s magnetic. She’s been watching it for years now. It’s like…like two binary stars, they’re called—stuck in each other’s orbit, never able to let go of the other, despite all the other things around them. Despite Castiel’s disobedience, his fall, the apocalypse, Purgatory, and now this mess…there was something there in between them—heavy and important and unspoken, but undeniable. What does it matter if their relationship is physical or not; it’s more meaningful than almost any other she’s witnessed before.

It makes her heart ache, an empty hollow throbbing with the absence of her angel, but that only serves to makes her return to the present issue at hand.

She chuckles. “Looks like we need a tiebreaker. Go get moose, squirrel,” she instructs, and pauses when she sees guilt slip over his face. “Unless…Unless, of course, you can't. That's why you're here, isn't it? What happened to your brother?”

 _Shit_ , she thinks.

“Are you done?” he glares.

Crowley glares impatiently. “Depends. Do we have a deal?”

“Yeah,” Dean snaps, stalking forward.

With the collar and cuffs, she has just enough of a reach to grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to her. “Oh, Dean, you know that’s not how I seal deals, darling,” she purrs, her breath fanning over his face before pulling him down into a kiss.

He’s angry and it shows. She can feel the furious energy in his body, in the aggressive way his mouth moves and the forceful way he grabs her in response.

After a moment, he breaks the kiss and shoves himself away. She doesn’t miss Castiel’s hostile, protective glare he sends her way.

“Excellent. When do we leave?” she smirks.

* * *

 

Castiel glares at her. “When you betray us, I'll be the one to carve out your heart,” he tells her calmly in his matter of fact tone.

 _Don’t touch Dean_ , she reads from his face. _I will kill you before you hurt him, no matter the consequences._

Angels are so protective of their loved ones, aren’t they?

A sharp smile curves her lips as she leans forward and close to his ear. “Oh, Cas, such a flirt,” she purrs and enjoys how he tenses up at her proximity, before withdrawing.

At this point, there isn’t much reason or incentive to betray them.

* * *

 

“Laverne! Shirley! Get in here!” she calls over her shoulder and they rush back into the room. “Pinhead's out cold, but watch this.” Carefully, she fiddles with two needles in his left temple and he begins babbling Enochian. She smirks.

“ _Zir noco iad Gadreel. Zir noco iad Gadreel_ …”

“What's he saying?” Dean asks.

She smiles. “His name. I thought I recognized him, but it’s been so long, I couldn’t be sure. Say hello to Gadreel.”

Dean looks to Castiel. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Well, it’s why I've never seen him,” the angel replies. “He's been imprisoned since the dawn of time. Gadreel was the sentry who allowed Lucifer into the garden.”

The demon suppresses a smirk and watches Gadreel instead, focusing on not allowing her amusement to show.

“Wait, the garden? Like Eden? Adam and Eve? Fig-leaves garden?”

Castiel is all but seething. “It's his fault—all of it. The corruption of man, demons, hell. God _left_ because of him. The archangels—the apocalypse. If he hadn't been so weak, none of it would have happened. You ruined the universe, you damn son of a bitch!”

She steps back as Dean pulls the irate angel away, and then she continues to probe the needles and fiddle with their angel.

“What's taking so long?” Dean demands.

She sighs. “Other than the fact that I'm just trying to unravel a living, multidimensional knot of pure energy…not much.”

The bound man sucks in a breath of air…but it is Gadreel who speaks still. “It won't work. You will never find your brother. Go ahead. Poke and prod. I can sit in this chair for years and watch you fail over and over again. I've endured much worse than this, Dean. So… _much_ …worse. And I have all the time in the world.”

“Shut up!” Dean snaps. “All right. Plan B. Cas, you got to possess him.”

“What?”

“Do it now! Get in there, tell Sam what's going on, and help him kick that lying son of a bitch out!”

The angel hesitates. “It might work. But I can't possess a vessel without permission.”

Crowley clears her throat and raises her hand. “I volunteer, I volunteer as tribute,” she quotes with a smirk.

“No. Not happening.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don't be daft. Demons can take what they want. I can burrow into that rat's nest of a head. I can wake Sam up. Just call me plan C.”

“You can't—”

“You got a better idea?” the hunter snaps at Castiel, then turns to Crowley. “What about the angel?”

The demon smirks. “I'll work fast.”

“And if he finds you?” Dean presses.

“I'll run. Of course, if I do this, you're gonna have to…”

“Take off the leash. Yeah, I know.”

She glares. “And it _stays_ off. I save Sam, I leave here a free woman. I need to take care of Abaddon. Do we have a deal?” Crowley spits.

After a moment of staring at her, he turns to the dark-haired angel. “Cas, burn off Sam's tattoo.”

While they do that, Crowley seats herself in her chair comfortably.

“If you mess with Sam, if you try anything—”

“I _keep_ my bargains,” interrupts Crowley sharply. _Honestly_ , how did he take her for—Abaddon? “Besides, I don't want to be inside your brother any longer than I have to. I'm not one for sloppy seconds.”

As he unlocks her neck cuff, she smirks to Gadreel. “Remember me, big boy?”

“What do you mean?” Gadreel snaps, eyes narrowed.

She laughs softly. “Oh, come on, darling. You should remember—although, last time you saw me, I was in a more…reptilian form.”

Gadreel’s eyes bulge. “ _YOU!_ ”

“Look out, look out, Gadreel,” she purrs darkly. “I’m here to ruin you again.”

“ _CRAWLY!_ ” he screams, struggling against his restraints as she laughs.

Oh this is so unexpected, yet so enjoyable. “I go by Crowley now, my dear. Get with the times.”

“What are you two talking about?” Castiel growls suspiciously, shoving Gadreel back in the chair.

She laughs. “Old friends catching up, one could say.”

“I’ll kill you, you loathsome maggot!” Gadreel snarls, writhing against his cuffs and restraints. “It’s your fault! _You_ did this!”

“Shut up,” Castiel growls, silencing him. “Crowley, what is he talking about?”

“Must we do this now?” she sighs. “I’ve got a moose to save, don’t I? I’ll explain later if you’re so curious.”

Slowly, he nods.

Dean speak up. “When you find him, say ‘Poughkeepsie.’ It's our go word. It means ‘drop everything and run’.”

“Fine, will do,” she nods and pauses. “While I'm gone, hands off my body, got it?”

Gadreel glares murderously at her. “I will destroy you.”

She smiles, looking forward to the challenge. “Eat me.”

* * *

 

She finds Sam in what he thinks is their little bunker, flipping through a book. “Not bad,” she murmurs, admiring the accuracy of the dream.

(If she takes a moment to crow internally in triumph—actually possessing a Winchester—how singular. Doesn’t she feel accomplished.)

Sam jumps up and starts yelling for his brother.

The demon leans forward. “Poughkeepsie.”

He freezes and stares at her as she hops up to sit on the edge of the table. “How do you know that word?”

“Because Dean sent me—Bullwinkle, the _real_ Dean. I'll make this quick—you've been possessed by an angel. He's got you packed away in some dusty corner of your own mind, and I'm here to break you out.” She motions to the door.

“Seriously?”

Crowley sighs. “Fine. We'll do this the fun way,” she replies and seizes him by the front of his shirt and yanks his head down, standing on her toes to mash their lips together. It’s quick and hot and dirty, just as she intended—and he groans into the kiss as she slides her tongue past his lips. The ridiculously long hair of his proves useful, she finds, as she tugs him down closer to her, keeping him there—not that he’s fighting it, really. He’s still suspended in utter disbelief about what’s going on.

But hey, she isn’t one to let opportunities slip by, so she slides her hands down his back and arms, feeling the taut muscles of his body. As she’s still perched on the table, he ends up leaning over her, until she has slowly been nudged back until she’s nearly horizontal on the table with him groping her curves.

As Sam is distracted by her lips and breasts, one hand wanders across the table to snatch a gun, pulling it carefully in between them. She grins into the kiss before firing a shot into his chest.

Breaking the kiss, he stumbles back and stares in shock when he realizes he isn’t even bleeding. “See? _Not real_. Like I said. I _know_ how possession works, Sam. You've seen everything that he's seen, even if you can't remember. That's what I need you to do. I need you to _remember_.”

It takes a moment, but surely, his face crumbles before her eyes as he recalls everything. “Did I…kill Kevin?” he stammers heartbreakingly.

Crowley’s throat tightens and she grabs his shoulder, focusing him. “ _No_ , you didn't. _He_ did. You need to take _control_ , Sam. Blow it up and cast that punk-ass holy-roller _out_!”

Sam straightens, staring behind her. “What?” Then she groans, “Oh, bollocks.” Turning, she faces the angel.

“Hello, Sam…and you, Crawly.”

“Who—who are you?” Sam demands.

She glares at the angel fiercely. “His name is Gadreel, the original chump.”

Said angel’s eyes are blazing as he steps closer to glare down at her. “ _Was_ a chump. And now? I'm going to be the one that leads my kind back to heaven. I'm going to be a hero. But you, _demon_ , for all your chatter, you will _always_ be a coward. You should be running. I’m going to destroy you for all you’ve done.”

She studies him calmly and nods, before punching him.

It doesn’t do much, and he swings back, sending her hurtling over a table to the floor, where he meets her. His foot crashes into her stomach repeatedly, making her curl up in pain, crying out.

Sam, the stupid, selfless moose, tries to come to her rescue but is sent flying too. “Give up, boy. You're not strong enough.”

“Take control, Sam!” she screams, her mouth full of blood. “Cast him out!”

“Get out of my—”

Before he can finish, Gadreel grabs his throat and begins choking him. “You sure you want me to go? Maybe I'm the only thing holding you together. I leave, you might die. And what—”

This time, she interrupts him, leaping onto his back and sending him rolling across the floor. He snatches her by the neck and throws her through a wall.

Her vision goes black for a moment. When it clears, she sees Sam pressing his foot down on Gadreel’s neck. “I said get…the hell… _out_!”

* * *

 

She returns to her body and flies forward, coughing terribly. “I—I'm fine. Thanks for asking,” she calls through the coughs and gasps to the others. “Goddamn, that’s last time I let myself be a punching bag for an angel.”

Headlights flashing through the windows catch her eye, but Castiel goes to investigate. “It's Abaddon!” he exclaims.

She looks to the boys. “Go. The back door. I'll handle this.”

“Oh, 'cause you're such a good gal?” Dean replies skeptically.

Crowley glares. “Right now, I'm the goodest gal you got. Now go. I’ll explain about Gadreel later. _Go_ ,” she snaps, throwing his bag to him.

“This don't make us square—”

“Yes, I know. I love you, too,” she quips and watches as they rush Sam out. “Pleasure doing business with you boys, as always,” she calls and seats herself comfortably, waiting.

She doesn’t wait long.

The doors slam open and Abaddon enters, two lackeys following.

“Hello, darling,” she acknowledges.

“Crowley,” the Knight snarls and barks to the other two, “Bring me her head.”

But as they hesitate, she smirks to Abaddon. “See, that's the thing about demons. They're only obedient to a point. Right. Let's have a chat.”

“I'm not here to talk,” Abaddon snaps sharply.

Crowley snorts. “And I'm not talking to you. I'm talking to _them_ , the average demon, because I feel their pain. It must have been difficult, with your loving queen so _cruelly_ taken from you. I imagine you felt all at sea. And then along came…The brute,” she motions to Abaddon flippantly. “She's strong…and a Knight and immortal—at the moment. So I'm not surprised that some of my more _idiotic_ subjects bought her line. But now? Good news, fellas.” She stands and smiles, feet away from Abaddon, but she stretches out her arms welcomingly. “Mummy's home.”

Abaddon is unimpressed. “Hell doesn't want you, Crowley. It's mine.”

She laughs. “Is it? Not what I hear. Not while I'm still kicking.”

“Well, then, let's settle it,” the redhead replies. “You and me. Right here. Winner takes the crown.”

“See, that's your problem, love,” she drawls in amusement. “You think this is a fight.”

“It's not?” Abaddon laughs.

Shaking her head, Crowley smirks. “It's a campaign. Hearts and minds, that's what's important. See, the demons have a _choice_ —take orders from the world's angriest ginger—and _that's_ saying something, really—or join my team, where everyone gets a say, a virgin, and all the entrails they can eat. So, think on this, lads. Spread the word—vote Crowley!” She winks and disappears.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. My absence. Err. Exams and finals. Family problems. Holidays with family, yay. Health problems. Problems with keeping on weight. Old injuries causing issues. Fandom feels (Fellow Tolien fans...the acorn scene killed me.)   
> And. Well...Coming out as asexual to your family isn't fun nor easy. (Especially when you're an only child and they just want you to settle down and get married and give them grandbabies. And people can't grasp the idea that you just don't want sex. Or children. Not to mention that I have an actual phobia of pregnancy/childbirth.   
> Anyways.  
> For your patience, you get answers, which have been a long time coming. 
> 
> “Do you think the universe fights for souls to be together? Some things are too strange and strong to be coincidences.” – Emery Allen

Crowley finds the Winchesters and Castiel on a pier.

“…it’ll take time to fully heal you, we’ll have to do it in stages,” Castiel tells Sam.

“Or I could help out now,” Crowley suggests, leaning against the rail opposite them.

They turn.

“Crowley,” Sam greets calmly, though grimacing.

“Hello, Moose,” she smiles and strides forward. Pressing a careful finger to his cheek, she heals what she can. “That’s most of it, but Cassie will have to keep an eye on you,” she advises. “Regular checkups and all that.”

“Thanks,” the giant replies warily.

Nodding, she accepts the gratitude. “Well, I’m free now, and my campaign against Abby is on its way, so I’m in a kind mood. You’re welcome, darling,” she pauses and grins. “Also, thank you for the bruised lips. Been a while.” The demon can’t resist a wink, making Sam go red.

“What?” Castiel asks, confused, brow furrowed adorably.

Dean stares, disturbed. “Oh, _come on_ , Crowley— _really_?”

She shrugs. “I had to convince him it was all in his head, didn’t I? If that included a little snogging to distract him while I grabbed a gun to shoot him…I’m willing to take one for the team. Besides, you can’t say much—you’ve done worse, dearie.”

“What’d you mean by—you know what, never mind. Crowley—you gonna explain how you know Gadreel?” Dean glares.

She pauses, reluctant.

Castiel turns to her, suspicious. “It’s impossible for you to know him. He’s been imprisoned since the dawn of time, ever since he let Lucifer into the Garden of Eden. How do you know him?”

She says nothing, considering, as her eyes watch the distant waves of the ocean. After a moment, Crowley finally nods to herself. “It’s a long story and if I’m going to tell it, it’s going to be in comfort. Preferably with a drink. Mind if we return to your little bunker? I’d rather not be tracked here by Abby or Gadreel. And this way, Bobby can hear the story too.”

They exchange wary glances. “Oh, please,” she adds. “I already know where it is. I’ll even make a deal with you to be your ally for the time being. Alright?”

“Okay,” Dean concedes and, with a snap of her fingers, the four of them are in the main room of their little Batcave.

“You can get Bobby. I’ll wait,” she tells them and Dean leaves to find the older hunter. Her eyes trail across the room, over the fine bookcases and equipment. Her eyes pause on a mobile phone on the table before her and she plucks it up curiously. The background, she finds, is a photo of Kevin and his mother.

Closing her eyes, she exhales the air from her nose, trying not to feel guilty. She isn’t successful.

Crowley groans. She feels his ghost too—feels his soul caught in the Veil, as Heaven is closed. He’s watching them, a few feet away from her right now.

“Damn it all,” she mutters and makes a tumbler of whisky appear in her hand, still glaring down at the tabletop.

She hears them return, but their footsteps halt abruptly as they reach the room. “Kevin?!” Dean shouts. The others turn and gape.

“ _Kevin?_ ”

“How’re ya here, kid?”

“What?”

Crowley allows the smile to tug at her lips as she turns to watch the reunion unfold, the hunters and angel and prophet gathering in confused shock and joy. She holds on to the back of a chair carefully, trying to control her light-headed swaying.

It’s more energy than she should use, especially after possessing Sam and fighting Gadreel, but she has to.

Eventually, the clamor is silenced by Kevin. “Crowley.”

She raises her glass of alcohol in a toast. “Kevin m’boy. Hello.”

“You did this.”

“And if I did?” she asks calmly, taking a sip of the Craig.

.The teen stares for a long moment. “Thanks,” he nods, a slight smile still present.

Sam stops and stares. “You brought him back, Crowley? How? Why—”

Groaning, the demon seats herself in an armchair, sighing from tiredness as she does. “Can’t you just let it go? Call it strategy, call it fondness, call it manipulation, call it whatever the hell you want. I don’t care. It’s not the issue presently. So why don’t you catch Kevin and Bobby up on what they’ve missed so we can get on with it?”

She listens, silent, eyes traversing across the room, while they explain recent events.

This…changes things. Drastically. Crowley had all but given up but…she finds herself hoping, somehow.

There is a dark spot in her heart, the gaping hole where Zira belongs, and the guilt and misery that absence causes. But Aziraphale is dead, and nothing she can do will change that. Even she cannot resurrect a dead angel; his Grace is scattered in millions of pieces across the universe. No force could fix that save their Father’s hand.

And she gave up on Him a long time ago. No matter what Death would have her believe.

But Zira…she feels a part of him in her heart, in her mind—feels guilt and sadness and emotions and—well, it’s almost _humanity_ because of him. She knows he’s hate much of what she’s done but…There are things he would approve of. Saving Bobby and Kevin. Helping the boys. Fighting the apocalypse. Protecting the tablets. She can’t continue to do that if she doesn’t kill Abaddon. Because Abaddon will not let her live. Zira would understand that. (Hell, he’d probably try to kill Abaddon himself.)

Crowley doesn’t want to tell them her history, about Zira, about her origins. But…it’s overdue. She’s just so tired of it all. Tired of fighting. Tired of hiding. Tired of being alone. Tired of…of…everything. Tired of living.

Maybe it’s time. Maybe she’ll just set everything up stably in Hell. Take down Abaddon and put the fear of Crowley in everyone. Maybe she’ll even seal the gates of Hell herself. Deal with that douche Metatron and help the angels as best as she can. Then…if she goes down in this fight…maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

 _…God_. When did she become so maudlin?

The demon shakes herself from her ruminations as the hunters finish their little recap.

 “We’re going to settle that deal now,” she informs them quickly. “I explain, but the knowledge goes no further than those present in this room. I help you against Metatron, you help me against Abaddon. Neither of us kill, or attempt to kill, the others. Not until our mutual enemies are out of the way. Got it? Good.”

“Now…explain,” Sam says, though his tone poses it more as a question.

“You know much about me, boys. You and I have worked together a lot, which is particularly impressive given how long it’s been. You know a lot—my bluff as Fiona MacLeod, my lack of bones to be destroyed, my…ties to a certain angel…But what you know only poses more questions.”

Dean sits forward in his chair. “So, what? You tryin’ to say you’re not a demon?”

It startles a laugh from her. Taking a long drink from her glass, she glances at them.

“That’s the thing about you boys,” she murmurs thoughtfully. “It’s always black or white to you—good _or_ evil, no in between. Newsflash, there are shades of grey. Gadreel…he was a Principality—the rank just below archangels,” she explains for the brothers quickly. “He was highly regarded and powerful, but…a bit naïve. He was foolish one time and made a mistake—and he accidentally let the serpent into Eden. Did he know all that it would cause? No. Did he suspect? No. He has good intentions, a good heart, really, but at the moment he’s blinded by his lust for revenge on his captors and torturers. Metatron is appealing to him through that—offering both redemption and revenge. Pose a good argument and you might get him on your side against Metatron. Just a tip.”

She takes another drink, relishing the burn of the whisky down her throat.

“Sounded like he wanted revenge on you especially,” Dean mutters.

“Indeed, he did,” Crowley acknowledges quietly. “I suppose I’m more to blame than any other.”

The angel gives her a side-eyed glance. “How?” he growls suspiciously.

“Not all demons are…what you think,” she begins slowly. “Not all of them start as human souls.”

“You didn’t,” Bobby assumes. “That’s why the trick with the bones didn’t work.”

“Got it in one,” she nods.

Sam leans forward curiously. “Then where did you come from? What— _are_ you? I’ve never heard of anything like this.”

“Yes you have, you just never made the connection, Moose,” she snaps. “What is Lucifer?”

“A fallen…angel. Wait—you’re—”

“I was.”

She hesitates before standing. With a sigh, wings appear and unfurl from her back, sable feathers gleaming iridescent in the light.

They stare.

Eventually, Sam speaks up, cogs whirling in his brain. "But I thought if an angel falls, they become human."

"No, they Fall when they are no longer serving Heaven, when they are cast out—it hurts, like no torture one could hope to inflict, but they still have their Grace. No, they become human when they lose Faith, which Feather-Head nearly did back when Lucy was around, or their Grace is _taken_. Others…others became demons thanks to Lucifer."

“He called you Crawly,” Sam notes, the question in his voice.

Again, the demon sighs, tucking her wings away as she returns to her chair. “An old name. One of many that I possess. Crowley…who was Crawly…who was Sariel.”

Castiel chokes on air. “S—you— _you_ are Sariel?”

“I was, Castiel,” she replies softly. “Hello, brother.” He stares in awe and shock.

“It’s been a long time. Before this mess, the last time I saw you…God. You were young, just a fledgling, still learning to fly. Gabriel used to toss you around like a hot potato for you to learn…” She chuckles sadly to herself. It was one of the few memories she could recall of her siblings.

He pauses. “That…that’s how you knew Aziraphale.”

“Well, yes, he and I were close after I fell, but that’s—”

“No, you knew him before.”

She pauses. “I beg your pardon?”

“…How much do you recall before you fell, Sariel?”

The fallen angel flinches at the name. “ _Crowley_ , please. I’m Crowley now, Castiel. But…I.” She swallows. “I only remember bits and pieces. Fragments. Falling… The fall all but wiped my memory.”

Castiel nods, expecting this. “I was young, yes, but I remember you—I remember Sariel. When Lucifer fell, others went with him. They rebelled as well, and…there was fighting. There was the war in Heaven between the Heavenly Host and the Fallen. I remember Aziraphale and Sariel—Aziraphale was fond of me and I of him. He was…a big brother, a friend, a mentor, I suppose. They were close. _Very_ close. I remember because it was…well, the closest thing to a scandal Heaven had. Do you remember any of this?”

Slowly, she shakes her head. “No, I…I didn’t even realize I knew Zira before…well. Before.”

“You were both in the same select garrison,” Castiel explains slowly. “I heard…well, this is all hearsay,you realize. I was not present, as I was too young at the time to take part in battle, so I only heard about it. Supposedly…in one battle, you disobeyed orders in order to protect Aziraphale. You abandoned your post to protect him. Because of that, he survived the battle but…there were major losses because of your absence, major ground lost. When confronted by Michael, you argued. From what I later heard…he questioned your loyalty, even your love for our Father. And…well, from what I heard, it is assumed you cared for Aziraphale more.”

For a long minute, Crowley was silent and still. She moved only to throw back the rest of her liquor and to refill the glass.

She hadn’t known…hadn’t suspected… She didn’t remember; she had only assumed she sided with Lucifer and Fell with him and his followers.

Lucifer had Fallen for loving God too much. Sariel had Fallen for loving Aziraphale too much, and God not enough.

 “Even then,” she murmurs to herself and laughs bitterly.

Even then she had loved Zira. Maybe it was fated, maybe she was just always meant to. Maybe there were just some bonds that would always happen, people who would always find each other and choose each other, no matter the circumstances. Maybe there was just an innate attraction between them, gravitational in nature, that would always draw them into each other’s orbits and lives.

It doesn’t matter. She had loved him then, loved him after, loves him now, would always love him.

With a shake of her head, she focuses herself. “That’s not important now,” she mutters. “I Fell and…you boys don’t quite understand what that means. Falling like that…being physically plucked from Heaven and kicked out by Michael, by my own brother…I Fell and oh, how it burned at my Grace. Twisted me. Made me forget who and what I was. Human souls become twisted on the rack in Hell. I never needed to go on the rack—the Fall was worse than anything one could do on the rack. It was true Falling. Castiel…he was cut off from Heaven, but he retained all his powers, wings, Grace—well, until recently, of course. He Fell to earth.

“I couldn’t. I fell and went to Hell. And there…Lucifer trained us, made us his army. There we became demonic. Forget that little slut Lilith— _we_ were the first demons.

“The fallen angels that joined Lucifer…we are far more powerful than the human demons. Powers and weaknesses of both angels and demons. You don’t have to worry, though. Most were killed ages ago in the war before Lucifer was locked away the first time. I killed the last ones several years ago…I’m the only one left now.”

She pauses to allow them to digest that information.

“How did Gadreel know you?” Bobby asks, eventually.

Crowley stills. “Ah. That’s…hm. Castiel, take no offense to this, but ah…I don’t feel comfortable explaining this beside you. Just ah…promise you’ll restrain yourself, yes?”

Slowly, the angel nods, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Alright, well, ah. You see, after I Fell, my first orders were…well, to get up there and stir up some trouble,” she stammers, leaning away from Castiel slowly. “I didn’t…I didn’t know…I couldn’t have thought…”

“What’re you saying, Crowley?” Kevin inquires.

“The, ah. You know, lore these days…translated so many times and retold from so many mouths, I mean—it’s bound to be incorrect at times. Things get misinterpreted or forgotten… And well…Lucifer…wasn’t the serpent in Eden.” She stares at them warily. “I was.”

Bobby gapes. “ _You?_ You were…you tempted Eve…You created Original Sin.”

With a groan, she scrubs a hand over her face. “I hate when they call it that, but yes…I…accidentally caused it to come about. That’s why they might call me The Temptress.”

Dean bursts into a gale of laughter. “You, the Temptress, really?”

Her eyebrows rise. “Oh, squirrel. Even you aren’t immune to my charms, darling.”

“Oh yeah?” he laughs.

She pulls out her mobile. “Hannibal, Missouri. Three months ago. You and Moose were there on a hunt for…a werewolf, I believe? After closing the case, you went for a drink at a local bar and met a curvy redhead named Anthea.”

Dean stares. “How’d you…”

“Because that was me, _moron_ ,” she chuckles and holds out her phone for them to see the photo on display.

It’s of her and Dean nude in bed; the hunter was out cold, mouth drooping open, and ‘Anthea’ smirked at the camera proudly, lipstick smudged on her mouth and a neat kiss mark on his cheek.

He groans loudly, especially when she flips to the next picture—the only difference being that she was in her usual form.

“ _Why’d you take a picture?_ ” he shouts.

Bobby chuckles. “Why’d you have to use tongue?” he mutters under his breath, recalling his own question like that long ago. Crowley grins mischievously to him.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t believe me otherwise, Dean-o,” she laughs. “Can’t make fun of Sam now, can you?”

The thought makes her pause and glance around their little circle and she begins to laugh. “Oh my _God_ —none of you can say _anything_ —you’ve all kissed me!”

“Wait, what?”

She sighs and goes around the circle, pointing to each one as she talks. “Dean, during our various trysts…” (Crowley ignores his sputters of “Tryst _s_ —wait—how many—”) “…Bobby, first for a deal to get Death’s location to stop the apocalypse. Then a couple times after that, too…Sammykins, a while ago in a deal, then recently in his head to snap him from the little daze Gadreel had him in when he was locked in his head…Kevin, in a deal that placed his mother under my protection.” The demon grins at Dean. “Understand why I’m called the Temptress now?”

“Fine, yeah, I do—can we move on?!” he exclaims.

Crowley takes mercy on him and returns her mobile to her pocket. “Don’t worry,” she stage-whispers to the others. “I’ll send copies to you for blackmail purposes.”

He groans, but she returns to relevant topics. “Anyways, so, yes that was me in the Garden. Lucifer gets all the credit in the Bible of course, but the angels know. I’d tried to get into Eden before—I had tried the other gates. That’s how I met Zira…or rather, how _I thought_ I met Zira. He was the only one who didn’t smite me on sight. After I actually got in and made things happen…well, he knew afterwards, but still didn’t smite me when I came around. We’d chat, you know. He had an angel blade that was, well, special. A flaming sword, if you can believe it. When Adam and Eve left the Garden, he thought they looked cold and so he played Prometheus. He gave them his sword for fire. A camaraderie formed—he wondered if he did the wrong thing, I wondered if I did the right thing.”

“You caused the Fall of Man, the division in Heaven, and God to leave,” Castiel replies, stupefied.

Rolling her eyes, Crowley replies, “Yes, well—we wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. None of _them_ ,” she motions to the humans, “would exist if I hadn’t! No Winchesters, no Bobby, no Kevin, no hunters, no humanity as you know it. I’ve had six thousand years to think about it. If I hadn’t done that, earth would always have been boring paradise. None of this would exist. So _fuck you_. I may be a demon, yes, thank you I know that—but I think I did the right thing.”

“Alright, alright, cool off you two,” Bobby snaps. “Crowley, get on with it.”

“Fine. Zira and I were acquaintances at that point. Then we each got assigned to be on earth as permanent agents on earth. Other angels and demons come and go but…we were always there. We lived on earth. We have—we _had_ —for six thousand years. Not together, mind you, but…we ran into each other. Eventually after fighting and growing tired of it, we came up with the Arrangement and we set aside our respective business ventures so we could become friends. I would tease him, try to seduce him; he’d try to tempt me into being good. We were close.

“As time went on, we both settled in London. He had a bookshop, lived above it. He was…he was my dearest friend. And then in the nineteen-nineties, there was an attempt to start the apocalypse. It wasn’t very well thought out or well organized, but it looked like it’d be successful. I didn’t…I didn’t want it to end like that. I convinced Zira to help me stop it. After a lot of insanity and racing across England, the Antichrist stopped it.” A soft smile curls her lips. “We lived. Somehow…we _lived_. And, after that, we were so happy, overwhelmed by our survival and success. We…well. It was shortly afterward that he and I…” she hesitates.

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “You hooked up?”

The demon scowls. “No, you dimwit. Well, sort of. I was… _oh, bollocks_. I was in love with him. I confessed and he returned the sentiment. Our relationship…developed. I moved in with him and…I hadn’t had contact with Hell since the Apocafail, I ignored my orders and their attempts at contact. We were…we were happy. And then it all fell apart.”

She takes a long gulp of whisky. “It was around the time you morons came around—when you were just looking for your father. I was captured by several demons and taken to Hell. They…weren’t pleased with my excuses why I hadn’t answered orders or summons. I was put on the rack and, well, I’m sure you lot remember Alastair. I was his favorite victim—stronger than a human soul, with weaknesses of both demons and angels. Weak to so much, but able to withstand so much more pain…”

To her left, Dean sucks in a breath as the epiphany hits him. She nods. "You were Alistair's little protégé," she says calmly. "You were good too, creative and vicious, after he broke you. And he loved watching you break others—but…not all of your victims were human souls."

"I…the fallen angel.” The hunter’s face is pale and drawn. "And that—that was you, in Hell…" he stutters, pale. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

She nods slightly. “It wasn’t something you could have helped.”

“Wait—if that was you…oh God,” Dean exhales slightly. “He…he cut off your wings.”

Crowley freezes.

“What?!” Castiel exclaims, livid.

She holds up a silencing hand, placating. “Easy, killer. I’m fine now. Hold on, that comes in later.”

"When—how did you get out?" Dean asks.

She rolls her eyes. "Same time as you, Dean. Same as you, both have friends in high places."

Castiel speaks up. “Aziraphale was in Heaven and volunteered to join me on the mission to pull you from Hell, Dean. I think he hoped to find Crowley there, though I did not know at the time. As I pulled you from Hell, he rescued Crowley from the rack.”

“Indeed. He healed me as well as he could. At some point during my recovery, Gabriel arrived to speak to Zira. He found us and listened to our explanation. He was…understanding, surprisingly—despite that I was a demon. He wanted to talk to Zira about the true apocalypse, as it was foretold. We researched in preparation, fearing a second attempt. But…” her voice breaks and she draws in a deep, steadying breath. “Aziraphale…he disappeared.

“I searched. I combed earth and could not find him. I couldn’t find him anywhere—what else could I have thought? But I returned to Hell, to my bosses, to suck up so I could search Hell. I was assigned the Crossroads by Lilith, put in charge to help boost quotas. I had power, had authority, and I had a hell of a reputation. Demons…they all knew of me—Crowley, the Serpent, the Temptress, the Fallen, the Silvertongue. They knew me and feared me. It helped in my search for Zira. But…I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t in Hell and he wasn’t on earth. I thought…I thought he’d left me and returned to Heaven. Realized how much of an idiot he was being, risking Falling for _me_ of all creatures. I thought he didn’t love me anymore—if he ever had in the first place.”

She does not cry, but her eyes possess the glassy quality of withheld tears, and her hands shake as she held the glass.

“I was embittered. I…what goodness Aziraphale had fostered in me withered in bitter betrayal and heartache. I tried to convince myself I hated him, but in reality, I hated myself, blamed myself. I became the demon you know.

“The rest you’re familiar with, mostly. Lucy busted out, I helped you as best as I was able, rented Bobby’s soul. In Stull Cemetery…Lucifer was infuriated by my betrayal. That was when he had Beelzebub bring Zira. I…I know now that he was taken by Hell, for leverage or revenge on me…my heart broke because he hadn’t given up on me. I gave up on him. You were there, Hardy Boys—you know what happened. I killed Lucifer’s lackeys and was stupid enough to get stabbed by Lucifer himself with my back turned. I died—I died a lovesick idiot.

Crowley pauses, jaw tense. “Bobby told me that Michael zapped my body and Aziraphale away. Dead, or captive, or lost…I didn’t know what happened to Zira. I…I was brought back. I don’t know why or how, but I was. In addition to being alive, my wings were restored, somehow. And I seized control of Hell. Originally, it was so I could look for him without other demons posing a risk…but I never found him. Michael must have killed him—or sent him somewhere to be killed. He’s dead and I can never fix it. I can never right this wrong. I failed him and I betrayed him. And that, Sam, is my greatest sin. That was what tortured me during the Third Trial.”

She looks up to meet their eyes—filled with pity and sadness and guilt.

“There, now you know the story of Crowley. Congratulations. And now I want to gank that bitch Abaddon and that bastard Metatron. Then…I don’t care anymore. I’m done. I’m sick of this. I just want life to settle down once more.”

Castiel hums in thought. “Why do you oppose Metatron?”

“Really? After my life story, _that_ is your question?” she laughs darkly. “But, well. Metatron has always been a pretentious douche. That’s reason enough. He sees you lot as the villains in his story presently, but if he wipes you out, who do you think will be next on his hit list? Little ol’ me. It’s partly self-preservation and part…” she trails off for a moment, searching for a word, “I don’t know what to call it. Revenge? Retribution? Family issues? He’s a dick who doesn’t deserve that kind of power.

“He banished all the angels and thrust them once again into another civil war. His actions have cost the lives of hundreds of angels…which, I suppose, the same could be said of me, but I've tried to make it right. We’re already an endangered species. And…Zira would want me to help.”

 


	31. Chapter 31

The demon departs soon after concluding her tale, not lingering despite how she had bared her soul. Her shoulders slump a little less as she stands and nods her goodbyes, weighed down a little less by her past.

In her wake, the boys find themselves still sitting around, ruminating on Crowley’s revealed secrets.

“Cas, you knew her—before?” Dean asks.

The angel nods slowly, staring at the fireplace, utterly still. “Yes, I…I did. Very well. I was young during the war in heaven, just too young to fight. Not quite a fledgling anymore, but not yet grown into my wings. Sariel was…she was well-known. She was the Angel of Death, working in conjunction with the horseman himself.”

Sam hums. “That explains why he seemed kinda, well, fond of her.”

“Indeed,” Castiel agrees. “After the archangels, the principalities are the most powerful order of angels; of these, Sariel and Aziraphale were prominent figures.”

“Wait, how many types of angels are there?” Kevin asks curiously, eying the angel. “I thought there were just archangels, seraphim, cupids, and normal angels?”

“Nine in total,” he explains. “Different by their capabilities and responsibilities. The archangels are the oldest and most powerful. Then the principalities. Each have unique titles and powers. They are guardians, educators, teachers—they help raise fledglings, teach them about our purpose and mission, remind them of the glory of our Father’s creations. Sariel was the Angel of Death, but also of Healing and of the natural balance of the world. I remember she taught me of the natural order—the necessity for death to have life, how light must have shadows, how such things are vital if Free Will is to exist…”

He pauses, blue eyes downcast and saddened at the memory.

“What about Aziraphale?” Bobby inquires inquisitively. “What did he do?”

Castiel smiles faintly. “Aziraphale was the angel of wisdom, of learning, of understanding—of tolerating differences and understanding that most creatures were not good nor evil, merely…themselves. That people are merely people, following their complex nature.”

The prophet nods in comprehension. “Every villain is a hero in their own mind—stuff like that, yeah?”

“You are correct,” Cas nods. “It…it does not surprise me that he would be the one to look past Crowley’s demonic nature to befriend her. You would like him, I think. He was a gentle angel, protective but rather adverse to violence, thoughtful and wise. He was, after Sariel’s fall, reassigned to guard the Eastern Gate of Eden, before being stationed on earth.

“After the principalities, there are the dominions, powers, virtues, thrones, seraphim, ‘normal’ angels, and the cherubim.”

Bobby nods in thought. “You knew them well, then?”

“I…yes. They were my mentors, so to speak. I was very close to Aziraphale and, by default, to Sariel. They were inseparable, in many ways. Knowing what I do now…I would say they were the most… _human_ of the angels. And I think that, quite possibly, Michael was correct.”

“About what?” Kevin asks.

“After Sariel disobeyed in battle, they argued, as I mentioned. He accused her of loving Aziraphale more than our Father. She…if I was told correctly, did not deny this. And, looking back to observing their interactions…I believe it was indeed love.”

Sam sets aside an empty beer bottle. “Wait, like…they were in love, romantically—or do you mean platonically?”

“That I cannot say,” Castiel replies simply. “As angels in Heaven…love was different. The physical aspect of love—lust, sex—did not exist for us there. I did not understand nor suspect at the time, so I never observed them closely enough to discern that.”

Dean shrugs. “Well, you said their memories were wiped, right? Crowley doesn’t remember that…but it didn’t stop her from actually falling in love with him later, here.”

* * *

 

But Castiel…Castiel remembers. Looking back, he remembers very much of them. They helped raise him. What Bobby was to Sam and Dean, Aziraphale and Sariel were to Castiel, in many ways.

Crowley mentioned recalling him as a small fledgling, being tossed about by Gabriel. That he remembers well, among other things…

 

_He is still learning to fly and quite small. Gabriel takes it upon himself to help ‘little Cassie’ fly. Small as the fledgling is, the archangel can hold him easily in one hand—a fact which he uses to his advantage._

_“Go, Cas, go!” Gabriel grins and tosses the little one up in the air._

_“_ Gabriel! _”_

_The archangel turns to see Sariel hurrying up. “Sar! Good to see ya—catch!”_

_She yelps as she bolts forward to catch the giggling fledgling. “Gabriel! Don’t you dare throw fledglings about like that!”_

_In her arms, Castiel laughs, little wings fluttering in excitement._

_“Aw, come on!” Gabriel whines. “See—Cassie likes it! And I always catch him if he doesn’t catch himself.”_

_Her lips thin as she glares protectively. “Gabriel, I am warning you—if I catch you tossing our brothers and sisters about for entertainment, I will personally flay you and take you to Michael!”_

_“Ugh, lame.” Gabriel rolls his eyes and takes Castiel back. “Geez.”_

_Sariel glares, arms crossed, but nods in satisfaction. “Or else,” she warns and turns to leave._

_“Fly, Cassie!” he shouts and throws the squealing, grinning angel into the air._

_“GABRIEL!”_

 

_“Hurry up, Sariel, or we’ll miss it!” Aziraphale calls over his shoulder._

_The other principality rolls her eyes, but flies a bit faster to keep up. “Oh shush, Zira. We’ve got time. Castiel, straighten your wings a bit, it will help with the wind,” she advises gently._

_The not-quite-a-fledgling does so quickly and nods his thanks to his older sister as they fly._

_“Up here, on the right,” the blond angel announces eagerly before swooping down to land on the beach._

_The other two follow. Castiel fumbles a bit with his landing, still not completely comfortable with his wings, which had only recently reached their full wingspan, but Sariel alights on the rocks gracefully with barely a whisper of her wings._

_“What are we here for, Aziraphale?” Castiel asks curiously. “You remain quite vague.”_

_He grins eagerly, crouches down, and waves them in._

_Standing beyond the gentle lapping of the waves upon the shore, Castiel takes a step closer as he sees a little grey shape move forward in the water._

_Sariel catches his shoulder carefully, to prevent him from stepping forward too much. “Don’t step on that fish, Castiel,” she murmurs as the small creature hauls itself onto the beach. A small awed smile blossoms across her face. “Big plans for that fish.”_

_“You mean this is—”_

_“A beginning,” Aziraphale nods proudly. “Yes. It won’t be much longer.”_

_Childlike wonder fills Castiel’s face. “That’s amazing,” he whispers, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully. “It’s very small, is it not?”_

_“Big things often have small beginnings,” Sariel explains softly. “But it is often the small things, rather, that mean the most.”_

_He nods, but he doesn’t really understand what she means._

_Not until he rescues a righteous soul from Hell much later._

_She was also the angel of the natural order. The balance of the universe—life and death, good and evil, light and dark—and the rules by which it must be governed._

_“Without these rules,” she tells him once, as they look down across a vast forest, “Our Father’s Creation cannot function properly. What is dead must stay dead. To have light, you must have dark. Without it, free will cannot exist. If a creature gets killed, it must die. If it does not, the flow is disrupted and the consequences can be…severe. But that doesn’t mean the rules don’t have exceptions.”_

_“Exceptions?” Castiel repeats in confusion. “But I thought rules must be obeyed?”_

_She chuckles wryly, a rare smiling curling across her lips. Others often thought her severe and harsh, but she had moments of softness and kindness; her sharp tongue is balanced with a kind heart, when one looks carefully. Thanks to his association with Aziraphale, he_ had _looked carefully and he was surprised by the complexity he found. “Rules always have exceptions, brother. Because sometimes…sometimes you must correct the flow of a river so it continues on the right path.”_

_“What are the exceptions then?”_

_She hums, her wings fluttering thoughtfully. The young fledgling admires her wings—she keeps them so pristine and well-groomed, elegant in their power and grace. “That’s the thing, brother…it is something you feel. You just know when you should do it—intuition, I suppose. And…there are ways around the rules, too. Something may be ill or dying, but that doesn’t mean we can’t heal it to help it survive.”_

 

* * *

 

  
When she leaves, the first thing she does is investigate what the hell has happened with the angels.

Her suspicion is correct: the angels have fallen.

When she finds Greyson, he informs her of Abaddon’s would-be take over, despite how demons were leery of her and hesitated, too loyal to their Queen. Not all, of course, but a decent number.

Greyson, ever-anticipating her priorities and concerns even in her absence, also has files compiled about the angels. Metatron, she learns, deceived Castiel into helping him close the gates of heaven. All angels fell save him, and heaven was locked up under his control.

 _Metatron_ , of all the angels.

The Scribe. The whiny little bookish secretary who was always too eager to be noticed, too blind. Too prejudiced, always seeing things in black and white, good and bad, heroes and villains. Manipulative when it suited him. Bitter and vengeful when he thought himself wronged.

The last person she would want in charge of Heaven.

 _Fuck_.

Well. Shit.

All of the archangels are gone. The most powerful players in heaven—such as Naomi—are dead. The lower echelons of angels have been decimated and divided amongst themselves, fighting, killing, squabbling—pointlessly.

Only Metatron is left upstairs. Douchebag Metatron.

Metatron the Scribe. Metatron the story teller. Metatron the colorblind. Metatron, arrogant in his belief that he was the hero of his story. Blindly believing that he can play God and write the new ending.

Because it’s all a story, to him. Just a grand, wonderful story, a book, that he can write and control and edit.

Despite that a primary theme in this story is one of choice and free will…Crowley knows. She knows that Metatron is stupid enough, blind enough, deluded enough not to understand what that meant. He wouldn’t comprehend free will at all. He wouldn’t know how to fight it, wouldn’t believe he is fighting it.

But Crowley has always been a being of free will. From falling, to causing the downfall of Eden, to loving Zira, to fighting it all…she has always operated under free will.

It’s why she’s still here.

The Winchesters have fought so many opponents. Demons, angels, Lucifer, Michael, Raphael, Castiel, Dick Roman, Leviathans, so many beings and creatures. Of their opponents, only she remains.

Somehow, she remains.

And so she will.

But for now…time to clean up the mess she made. And the mess Abaddon has made.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Violence, Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content (Getting dirty here folks. How about some car sex...)
> 
> * Fair warning - this is a long chapter - 12 pages in word - longer than usual.
> 
> Enjoy...?

Despite how she had saved the day from Gadreel, the boys are still at odds, still wounded, so Dean sets off by himself for a while. It presents Crowley with a marvelous opportunity.

She finds him in a bar, eying up a pretty waitress and appears beside him. “So...is that boudoir smile for me?” she purrs.

The hunter jumps, startled, and discretely pulls out the demon-killing knife. Crowley rolls her eyes.

“At least buy me a drink first, big boy…oh _please_ , don’t get so pissy. This bar is a bust anyway. That waitress is trouble with a capital T, and your prey, Gadreel, has left the building. So, it’s time to move on to more pressing matters, like destroying Abaddon.”

Snorting, he takes a sip of his beer. “Yeah, good luck with that. The Knights of Hell aren’t exactly the dying kind.”

“But there _is_ something that can kill a knight,” she informs him pleasantly, smiling. “The weapon that the archangels used to execute them—the First Blade.”

Or so lore says. But the lore isn’t ever completely accurate.

“Never heard of it,” he snaps. “Can I kill you now?”

The demon laughs lightly at his unpleasant attitude, but explains quickly. “I've been chasing that blade for decades. The closest I got to it was when one of my droogs—Smitty—got wind of a protégé demon of Abaddon's who claimed knowledge of the blade. Sadly, before Smitty could nab the guy, a hunter by the name of John Winchester nabbed the protégé. I'm here to see if there's anything in the John Winchester memorial library that might lead us to the First Blade—to killing Abaddon.”

His brow furrows in disbelief. “You want to hunt? With _me_?”

“I do love a good buddy comedy.”

He rolls his eyes but produces his father’s journal from his jacket and begins to rummage through it. “Oh, yeah. Here it is. Yeah, he picked up a protégé who had bones with Abaddon, but that's about all it says in here.”

Crowley glares at his blasé attitude, as if he could trick her. “What do those numbers in the margins mean?”

“None of your business,” Dean snaps.

She leans back against the bar, curves on display as she leers lasciviously. “You're gonna play hard to get, darling? We have time for a montage?” She snorts. “Don’t try that on me, Squirrel. Playing hard to get is only acceptable when it ends in the bedroom.”

Dean sighs in annoyance. “It’s a code—one of my dad's storage lockers. He may have put something about the case there.”

* * *

 

She glares as he snatches the hood off her head. “Is all this really necessary?” she sighs. “I mean, I've been inside your brother—you’ve heard my tragic backstory. We're practically _family_.”

He turns immediately, grabbing her by her coat and slams her back against the wall, eyes flashing with rage. “Listen to me. We are the _furthest_ thing from family. You got that, dickbag?” he growls.

 _That’s what you think for now, Dean_ , she considers coolly. _For now._

* * *

As the hunter glares at them from behind her shotgun, Crowley glares back from the devil’s trap. Dean intercedes. “Tara listen, my, uh,  _associate_ —”

She laughs. “Really, Dean? After all we’ve been through? Friends— _besties_ , actually.” The Queen of Hell smiles charmingly.

“Not helping,” Dean snaps in aggravation.

She flips the bird at him.

Tara rolls her eyes. “Not caring.”

Crowley sighs. “Look, I’m the Queen of Hell. He’s a Winchester. There’s a _reason_ why we’re working together.”

* * *

 

Outside the farmhouse in Missouri, something grates on her nerves, making the proverbial hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She pauses by the Impala. “ _Wait_.”

“What?”

“I'm feeling something,” Crowley states uneasily.

He ignores her warning. “What, cramps?”

The Queen of Hell grabs his arm, pulling him back. “No, I feel something… _dark_.”

“What, darker than you?”

She opens her mouth to respond and that’s when she sees him. Instantly, the demon recognizes his presence, knows who he is, and something in her trembles in genuine fear for a moment. It’s too easy to play up that fear. “Oh, no. We need to leave here— _now_.”

He eyes her in confusion. “What, are you allergic to bees?”

“That’s _not_ a beekeeper,” she snaps, voice trembling, just like the hand that has lingered on his elbow. “That’s the father of murder.”

The title means nothing to him, of course. “Sorry. Who?”

“It's _Cain_ ,” she snaps.

He turns back to her in bewilderment. “As in Cain and Abel?”

The demon swallows audibly, still tugging on his elbow urgently. “Dean—we need to be a _world_ away from here—from _him_.”

She turns to return to the Impala but finds Cain standing before her, glaring coldly as he removes the veil from his beekeeping suit. “You're not going anywhere,” he informs her. “Crowley.”

The nervous sound of shock that escapes her is not entirely false.

* * *

 

Cain’s home is a quaint, rustic home. Quite lovely and comfortable, really. Or it would be, were it not the dwelling of the father of murder.

As Dean glances around, assessing their options, he pauses to look at Crowley, who is staring at the floor, wide-eyed, suppressing panic. “Why don't you just zap out of here?”

“I’d never leave my domestic partner in crime,” she snaps.

He snorts. “Yeah, like your heart grew three sizes. You can’t zap out of here, can you?” he snips as he stands to nose around the room.

The demon grinds her teeth in irritation. “Cain’s doing something to me,” she growls. In truth, he’s _trying_. Were she any ol’ black-eyed demon, it would be quite successful. But she’s Crowley, so it hardly does anything. Doesn’t mean she’s going to let either of them know.

“Well, it’s not your day for getaways, is it?” he sneers absently. “All right, so, tell me about this Cain.”

She laughs sharply. “What’s there to tell? Cain killed Abel. Cain became a demon.”

The hunter turns away from the window to eye her “What do you mean ‘became a demon’?”

“I mean he became the deadliest demon to walk the face of the earth,” she snaps. “Killed _thousands_. The best at being the worst. And then he just…disappeared. Everyone thought he was dead—or, at least, _hoped_ he was,” she grumbles.

Of course, she’d known that he wasn’t dead. But the commonwealth hadn’t.

“Do either of you keep bees?” Both turn to find Cain in the doorway, holding a tea tray. “It's very relaxing. They're such noble creatures,” he explains as he sets down the tray. “And the honey? Well, I keep it right on the comb.”

He pauses to hand Crowley a cup. Her hands shake, and it rattles on the saucer. “There you are.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs politely and takes a sip.

Well. Apparently the father of murder knows how to make a proper cup of tea. It’s not a skill she finds often here in the States. Having lived in England for so long, she’s a bit of a snob about her tea, not that she really cares about that presently.

“They’re dying, you know,” he says conversationally as he hands Dean a cup. “Without bees, mankind will cease to exist.

“So, what are the Queen of Hell and a Winchester doing at my house?”

Dean freezes. “You know who we are?”

The Knight of Hell snorts. “I'm retired. I'm not dead,” he snaps, setting aside his tea. “Besides, this isn’t the first time Crowley and I have met. Though, admittedly, it was a very long time ago and I knew her by a different name. What I don't know is why you're looking for me—more importantly, how you found me.”

She hums. “Funny story, really. Bit of a misunderstanding, in fact. We really should—”

“Shh,” Cain interrupts and Crowley sputters off hoarsely. She glares, but allows it. He’s testing Dean, not her.

The hunter grins. “Oh, you gotta teach me how to do that,” he says eagerly.

“Why are you here, Dean?”

Crowley leans back on the sofa, reclining elegantly as she sips her tea, watching as Cain absently fiddles with the ring on his left ring finger. _Interesting_ , she thinks to herself. “We’re looking for the weapon the archangels used to kill the Knights of Hell,” Dean explains. “The First Blade. We need it to kill a Knight of Hell—Abaddon.” He pauses. “Look, I get it. You’re retired. We’re not here to get between you and the demonic AARP, but it’s bad out there, and I’m just looking to even the odds.”

Glaring, Cain is unimpressed. “One last time—how did you find me?” he growls.

“We didn’t. The location spell was for the blade. One-time deal.”

“Anyone else know you're here?”

“No.”

For a moment, neither speak, measuring up the other carefully in the fashion of old, hardened soldiers, until Cain stands. “Well, it's been a pleasure having company, but once a century is enough for me. You can let yourselves out.”

Dean follows. “Hey, listen, pal. We’re not leaving here without the Blade.”

The beekeeper turns. “You have quite a reputation, Dean. I see the part about you being brave rings true.”

He shrugs. “Well, what can I say? I’m an all-in kind of guy. Abaddon is the last Knight of Hell, and if you’re out of the game, what the hell do you care if she dies?”

Unimpressed, Cain nods to Crowley. “If your friend here could talk, she would tell you that I trained the Knights of Hell. I built that entire demonic order with my own hands—Abaddon included.”

Turning to glare at Crowley, Dean mutters, “Well, that is information I could have used five minutes ago!”

She growls wordlessly at him and flips him off, unable to speak.

“Well, here's something your friend doesn't know, that no one knows, in fact—outside of Abaddon. It wasn't the archangels that slaughtered the knights. It was me.”

Well, okay, not so much a lie as it was misinformation. Crowley may not have been present, but she watched with a spell. It’s a secret she’s known for a while, but it’s one that has to be kept close to her chest.

“Why did you turn on your own?”

Cain’s glare is flat and unconcerned. “Once again, I admire your bravery. But if you’ll excuse me, I have errands to run in town. Goodbye, Dean Winchester. Never return.”

They leave quickly and she glares. “Well, that was lovely. Can we flee the country now?”

“But you said the First Blade was our only shot at killing Abaddon. This is the closest you’ve been to it. We’re _not_ leaving.”

She sighs at his idiotic determination and glares at him over the Impala. “Will you listen to reason—for _once_?”

“Hey. He said he was going into town,” he snaps. “ _Awesome_. We wait till he's gone, come back, bust in, take what's ours. Got it?”

Crowley groans.

* * *

 

She’s watching Cain nervously as she returns the framed portrait to him, until headlights flash from the driveway.

A glance out the window reveals several demons arriving and Crowley mutters a string of curses in Aramaic.

“I don’t suppose they’re with you,” Dean mutters.

“No,” Cain replies stiffly.

One of the demons shouts to them from the Jeep. “I guess we can’t wait any longer. Your friend Tara was very helpful! Got downright chatty…After I peeled all her skin off. We don’t want any trouble, Cain. Just want the so-called Queen and the Winchester. I got a new master to impress, and I’m betting bagging those two will do just that.”

Dean turns to her. “ _Master?_ ”

She rolls her eyes. “Abaddon. This lot all need to die. I count—”

“Too many,” the hunter snaps and looks to Cain. “The whammy you put on the doors that keeps us in. Will it keep them out?”

He shrugs. “For now.”

“I'm gonna barricade the entrances,” Dean snaps, going to a bookcase. “Get ready for a fight!”

Cain sniffs. “Well, good luck with that.”

“What?”

“You exposed my home,” the Knight growls. “You exposed _me_.”

Dean stalks up to him. “Well, boo-hoo.”

Crowley shifts a bit nervously from beside them, watching both cautiously, as Cain nods. “Brave, but impulsive. You truly have lived up to your reputation, Dean.”

“Well, I can’t say you've lived up to yours.”

“What can I say? I'm _retired_ ,” he snaps and goes into the kitchen. “If you survive, you’re welcome to join me for the last meal I will eat in this house before I disappear again. It’s the least I can do.”

Her teeth grit together and she restrains her tongue. It’s Dean who must impress him, not her. Knowing her luck, he’d smite her on the spot.

As the hunter pushes the fridge to block the back door, he glances to Crowley. “All right, I got this. You take the front.”

The demon nods and closes the glass doors behind her, turning to face the front door, stilettos clicking as she goes.

Cain’s spell on the door doesn’t last long at all and soon a handful of demons enter. The first charges her and she flips him over her shoulder easily, sending him flying through the glass doors.

 _Dean’s problem now_ , she decides as she turns to the next.

This one she recognizes, a young, ambitious demon called Julian. She rolls her eyes. “Really? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

He lunges forward, sending her to the floor with a well-aimed kick to her ribs. She laughs breathlessly as she stands. “You’re good,” she admits but, as he rushes forward, she knocks him to the floor easily and smiles as she places her foot over his neck. “But I'm _Crowley_ ,” she reminds him harshly as she puts weight onto her heel and plunges the point of the stiletto into his throat. She produces her angel blade and stabs it into him too, killing him quickly.

With that settled, she looks into the kitchen, through the shattered glass doors, and watches as Dean kills the last demon.

 _Oh, it’s gone so well_ , she thinks as she watches them converse. _Honestly, though—of course it was a test, you bumbling moron._

“…I no longer have the blade. It’s gone.”

Crowley prowls forward furiously. “ _Gone_? What do you mean, ‘gone’? _How_? The spell brought us here to you, so it has to be here!” she shouts.

He glares. “Your spell brought you to the source of the Blade's power. _Me_ ,” he explains, pulling up his sleeve to reveal a mark burned into his forearm.

Instantly, the demon shrinks back and makes the sign of the cross over her heart.

“Really. Now?” Dean snaps at her dramatics.

“It's the bloody Mark of Cain!” she growls in response.

Cain nods. “From Lucifer himself. The mark and the blade work together. Without the mark, the blade is useless. It's just an old bone.”

 “The jawbone of an animal,” Dean realizes. “The jawbone you used to kill Abel because he was God's favorite.

The father of murder glares furiously. “Abel wasn’t talking to God. He was talking to _Lucifer_. Lucifer was gonna make my brother into his pet. I couldn't bear to watch him be corrupted, so I offered a deal—Abel’s soul in heaven for my soul in hell.” He pauses to glare at Crowley. “Ask your _friend_ , if you’d like. She was the intermediary of my deal. The first of its kind and the establishment of crossroad demons.”

“You know I had no choice,” she breathes, ashamed, avoiding his eyes.

He nods slowly. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven or forgotten.” He glances back to Dean. “She was the one who took it to Lucifer, and he accepted…As long as I was the one who sent Abel to heaven. So, I killed him. Became a soldier of Hell—a Knight.”

“And Lucifer ordered you to make more,” the hunter adds quietly.

He nods. “My knights and I, we did horrible things—for centuries. Bringers of chaos and darkness…”

“Then you met Colette,” Dean comments.

Cain winces somewhat. “She knew who I was…and what I was. She loved me unconditionally. She forgave me. She only asked for one thing.”

“To stop,” Crowley whispers softly, sadly—knowing, remembering, missing that kind of love.

 “When the knights found out, they took retribution. They _took_ Colette, so I picked the First Blade back up, and it felt so _good_ to have it in my hands again, and I slaughtered the Knights of Hell.”

“Not all of them.”

He pauses, a flash of anguish in his eyes. “No…Abaddon possessed Colette and tricked me into killing my wife. As Colette died, she made me promise to stop killing. So I buried her, and I walked away.”

And suddenly, she’s filled with an aching sort of bond with this man. Despite their odd beginnings, they were very much the same. Damned to terrible things by protecting those they love. Rescued from the darkness by undeserved, unconditional love from a pure soul. Punished for trying to leave by Hell killing them. Left here, alone, suffering, trying to figure out what to do next.

But retirement is hardly a realistic option for her, unless it were a more permanent retirement.

“Well, I'm sorry—truly,” Dean replies. “But I have to stop Abaddon. So, where is the Blade?”

The pain and grief fade into fury. “No.”

Stubborn and reckless as his reputation claimed him to be, Dean follows. “Hey! Listen, you son of a bitch. You may be done killing, but I'm not!” he shouts, demon-killing knife at a ready.

Cain glares and plunges the blade into his own chest. “You never give up on anything, do you?”

“Never,” he snaps.

Glaring, the father of murder pulls the knife from his chest. “Well, I do.” With that, he vanishes.

“Cain? Cain?!”

The sounds of trucks and shouting outside draw them again to the window. This time, there are dozens of demons lurking.

“Well, I’ll stay as long as I can,” she mutters.

Dean gives her a quick side-eye. “Aren’t you a peach?”

As demons storm the porch, they glance up to find Cain back. “What the hell, man?” Dean shouts. “You in or out? I’m getting head spins.”

“I can give you the mark, Dean, if it’s what you truly want,” Cain offers intently.

“What are you talking about?”

Crowley follows and watches hesitantly. This is it—this is what she’s been planning for all along. Finally.

“The mark can be transferred to someone who’s worthy,” he explains.

“You mean a killer like you?”

“Yes.”

He pauses, thinking. “Can I use it to kill that bitch?”

“Yes. But you have to know with the mark comes a great burden. Some would call it a great cost,” Cain warns grimly.

Dean doesn’t care. “Yeah, well, spare me the warning label. You had me at ‘kill the bitch’.”

As the men clasp hands, Cain nods. “Good luck, Dean. You're gonna to need it,” he advises.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Let's dance.”

As the demon grabs Dean’s forearm, red veins slither down Cain’s hand and down Dean’s arm until an identical mark burns into his flesh. The hunter gasps in pain, doubling over. “Dean?” she asks in concern.

“I'm fine,” he snaps at the Queen of Hell and looks back to Cain. “All right, where the hell did you stash the damn Blade?”

“Nothing can destroy the Blade, so I threw it to the bottom of the deepest ocean. It’s the only way I could keep my promise to Colette. You find the blade, kill Abaddon, but make me a promise first. When I call you—and I will call—you come find me and use the Blade on _me_ ,” he demands and Crowley winces in sympathy.

She knows that pain, knows that impulse, that emptiness that haunts one for ages.

“Why?” the hunter asks.

“For what I’m about to do,” he replies and snaps his fingers, allowing the demons inside.

Immediately, Dean and Crowley find themselves outside, watching the house as a red flare lights up the windows from inside.

The doors slam shut after the demons. “They’re all trapped in there,” she realizes.

“With him,” Dean mutters. They share a quick glance before rushing to the Impala and throwing themselves inside the car.

* * *

 

Later, the pair settle in a bar, drinking their respective beer and whisky.

Dean seems content not to discuss the day’s events, but Crowley does not let the subject remain unspoken. “He was right, you know. You are worthy,” she observes.

He glares over his beer. “Oh, great. Now you’re gonna get all touchy-feely, too?” he grumbles, brusque and phobic of emotions as ever.

“Your problem, mate, is that nobody hates you more than you do,” she tells him quietly, watching the other patrons in the bar. “Believe me, I’ve tried. No one can ever hate you as much as you hate yourself. That goes for you, your moose of a brother, and your pet angel, too. Most everyone, really.”

“And you, then?” he asks.

The demon laughs, bitter like cyanide. “Yes, Dean. Myself included. You don’t become Queen of Hell without a decent amount of self-loathing.”

For a long moment, Dean studies her, as if trying to determine her sincerity, before eventually changing the subject. “So, how do we find this Blade?”

“Well, you can’t search the bottom of the ocean, but I can,” she snorts. “So, I’ll find it and bring it to its new owner.”

She laughs and sets down her empty glass as she stands as if to go.

“I saw you, Crowley,” he snaps, making her pause. “Back at Cain’s. You dusted that undercard demon, and then you just sat back and watched the main event. You knew. You knew about the Mark. You knew about Abaddon and Cain. You knew all of it. And you played me. Why?”

Slowly, Crowley lowers herself back onto the bar stool with a sigh and signals the bartender for another glass of whisky. “He would never have given me the Blade,” she explains calmly. “Not given our history. It would take a good man to convince him…a righteous man. Who can say no to you? I needed you to play along…again, darling, I neglect to tell you things, but it’s for good reason.”

“You knew we were being followed, and you didn't say anything,” he growls.

“Well, Cain would want we were to see his prize fighter up close,” she shrugs, taking a sip of whisky. “You plus demons equals fight night.”

His glare is undiminished. “Tara died. Thanks to you.”

“Omelets. Broken eggs. Et cetera,” she mutters and sees his fist clench. “Oh, don’t make a scene, Ken doll. Haven’t you and your brother punched me enough in the past month for a lifetime?”

“Nope,” he snaps. “After I kill Abaddon, you’re next.”

She raises her eyebrows with a grin. “You don't mean that. We're having too much _fun_.”

“Is that what this is?” he grumbles and turns away to ask the bartender for another beer. The demon smiles to herself and lets the notion die.

For now.

* * *

 

An hour later, they’re still at the bar and both are decently tipsy.

Dean had chosen the bar, being the driver, and it was one more suited to his taste than Crowley’s: a bit sketchy, a bit grungy, but fairly relaxed and filled with plenty of attractive patrons. It’s plain to see that she doesn’t belong there; in her sheer cream blouse, form-fitting skinny jeans, and crimson stilettos, she stands out like a neon sign.

It doesn’t take long for that to cause an issue.

The conversation between her and the hunter had petered off and they were content with their thoughts and alcohol. Until a man seats himself next to her.She gives him a sharp side-eyed glance, but returns to her scotch and ignores him as he orders a beer.

“So,” she hears from her right. “I’m Jack.”

He’s a young man, probably college age, with an arrogant grin. Handsome enough, but not to her taste at the moment. “Not interested, sorry.”

“English, huh?” he grins. “Hot.”

“Thank you,” Crowley replies patiently, ignoring his inaccuracy about her accent. “Still not interested. Maybe try your luck with that blond at the other end of the bar.”

He refuses to take the hint. “Why would I do that? I’m talking to you.”

“Honey,” she snaps. “I’m not interested. You’re a child, anyway. My taste is older—for example, this thirty year old scotch, which at the moment has much more of my attention than _you_.”

For a moment, his smirk falters, but he powers on. “Well, trust me, I’m not lacking in experience. Maybe if you wanna come back to my place, I can show you…”

“No.”

He tries flattery. “You know, I love those heels. They really make your legs and ass look fantastic.”

Crowley sighs. “Fuck off, kid—before I shove one of my six inch heels up your arse, right beside your head.”

“Aw, come on—”

To her left, Dean sets down his beer. “Dude, seriously. Leave her alone. Before she pulls a Cell Block Tango and stabs you in the neck with her stiletto ten times.”

He glares. “I wasn’t talking to you, dude. What’re you, her dad?”

Dean glares, fists clenching. Crowley lays a calming hand on his hand. “Try boyfriend, dumbass. Now fuck off before we _both_ kick your ass. Got it?”

Thankfully, _finally_ , he scurries away with his tail suitably between his legs.

Quietly, Dean laughs. “Boyfriend, seriously?”

She giggles in amusement. “What was I supposed to say when you were getting all protective and alpha male?”

“What was I supposed to do? Guy was like a puppy trying to hump your leg. Jesus.”

Crowley laughs. “Though I _can_ handle myself, Dean…thank you,” she admits carefully, and cracks a grin. “Were you that bad?”

“Oh, please. I never had to nag to get anyone in bed,” he chuckles. “You?”

The demon chuckles lowly, leaning forward to offer an impressive view of her breasts. “Oh, darling…I specialized in seduction. That’s a piece of cake.”

“Really?”

“Got you in the sheets with me, didn’t it?” she snorts.

He rolls his eyes. “Hardly counts. Didn’t know it was you.”

Crowley raises her eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

He shifts on his stool. “Uh, no offense, Crowley, but I’m not sleeping with you, sorry. Maybe go track down the puppy.”

“Oh, come on, Dean,” she purrs, laying a hand on his thigh. “Honestly—we’ve already hooked up a few times before. What’s the difference now, knowing that it’s me?”

“It’s you,” he snorts.

Slowly, she leans back against the bar, the pose displaying her curves teasingly. “Oh, darling…it’s not like you haven’t been ogling me since we met. Besides, what’s the last action you got? Your own hand in the shower? When was the last time you had a woman in your bed, beautiful, flexible, and ever so eager for your cock?”

“Crowley…” he growls in warning. “Seriously? Don’t you have a few minions just itching to get in your pants?”

She snorts. “As if I’d let them touch me, trying to manipulate me. _Please_. My assistants are smarter than that, Greyson especially.”

“Oh yeah? What makes him so smart?”

“Let’s just say…he’s got more interest in cake than having sex with anyone,” she shrugs. “He’s asexual. But…he isn’t pertinent at the moment. We were talking about you and me doing to horizontal tango.” She runs the back of her hand down his cheek. “How about I sweeten the deal, hmm? If I swear to keep it between us and to never use it against you? You know I only have one rule: make a deal, keep it. Just think about that. You know you can trust me on this.

“Besides—when was the last time you had a bed partner you knew you could trust—that you didn’t have to worry would stab you mid-sex or strangle you in your sleep? You know I need you alive, dear. You know that it can be our little secret…Where’s the harm? Just two friends, two allies letting off some steam…”

Setting down his beer bottle, he looks to her with a small frown. “Swear. Swear you won’t tell anyone or hold it against me.”

Crowley smiles victoriously. “I promise,” she purrs and pulls him by his collar in for a kiss, slow and open mouthed. His lips are warm and he tastes of liquor, she gives a small noise of approval before pulling away. “Come on, let’s go,” she murmurs, tossing a few bills onto the bar for their drinks.

He goes easily with one carefully around her waist as he smirks at the glaring college kid. “Be good, Dean,” she snorts quietly, impatient, and they walk quickly to the Impala.

As he unlocks the car, he asks, “Where’s the nearest motel?”

Snorting, she opens the door to the back seat and pulls him in with her. “Who needs a hotel,” she laughs and closes the door behind them.

“You, uh, gonna use your demon mojo to prevent any interruptions, right?” he asks.

“Of course,” she purrs and curls around him, sealing her lips over his.

When she runs her tongue over the seal of his mouth, he allows her in and wraps a hand in her hair, leaning over her slightly. She accepts the invitation eagerly and groans as the kiss deepens.

That’s all it takes for him to press Crowley back down against the leather seat, feet bumping the door and leather squeaking noisily as they settle. His forearms bracket her shoulders as he leans over her.

One of her hands slip under his layered shirts and she runs her hand up his muscled back, making him shiver. She kicks her heels off, wrapping her legs around his hips, bucking up against him.

With a groan, he releases her mouth and kisses his way down her jaw and neck, alternating between suckling and nipping at her fair skin, leaving a light trail of marks. “ _Dean_ ,” she gasps, shoving his jacket from his shoulders and, slowly, off him completely.

He brushes her blouse away to trail his lips down from her collarbone to the valley between her breasts. “Shirt,” he mutters to her, tugging at the offending fabric. She shifts on the leather until she can pull it over her head, and he reaches around her to unhook her bra, tossing the lacy lingerie over his shoulder. The demon chuckles breathily as she sees it land on the steering wheel, but the laugh is interrupted by a groan as he takes her breasts in hand.

“God,” he groans appreciatively. “I’ve thought about these since we met.”

“They meet your approval?” she smirks breathlessly.

“Oh yeah,” he grins and leans down to take the attentive flesh into his mouth. While his warm, suckling mouth occupies the left, his hands wander to the right, squeezing her warm flesh and pinching her nipple, causing her to gasp, arching against him.

He’s got a leg between her thighs, grinding his denim-covered erection against her hip while she ruts up against his leg. Panting, she drags his shirt over his head tossing it to the floor of the car so she can run her curious hands over his gorgeously muscled chest.

“One good thing about you hunters,” she mutters, scraping her nails lightly over his nipples, making him shudder, “You’re in ungodly good shape. _Damn_.”

He chuckles, his hot breath fanning over the damp flesh of her chest and she whimpers. “Good thing about you, Crowley—you’re always fucking hot as hell and just as eager,” he murmurs, and his quick fingers dip into her jeans, rubbing against her lacy-covered folds.

“Dean,” she cries out, arching up to get better friction against his hand.

In her confined jeans, he fumbles against the fabric to get a better angle, and curses before beginning to peel them off her hips and dragging them down her legs impatiently.

Stretched out over the leather seat, with only a thin scrap of lace left on her body, Crowley purrs to him, “Darling, you’d better drop trou and get back up here quickly before I take matters into my own hands.”

Quick as she’s ever seen him move, he unbuckles his belt and throws off his trousers, leaving him only in blue boxers. “Those too, Dean,” she purrs.

He laughs. “Are you always in this much of a hurry?”

Crowley shrugs. “I’m impatient right now. And it’s _not_ good to leave a woman waiting.”

With a smug grin, he leans down and settles near her hips. “Trust me,” he replies. “Nothing wrong with a little foreplay, Crowley.”

Her teeth grit together. “ _Dean_ —” She cuts herself off with a gasp as he rubs at her clit through her panties.

He laughs. “Hope you’re not especially fond of these,” he mutters, and rips the lace off. The pull of it stings, digging into her skin, but she merely moans and the hunter sinks two fingers into her.

The demon throws her head back with a shout, hips rocking toward him; he chuckles and pins her down to the leather seat.

They both jump when rain suddenly begins pouring down upon the Impala, but Crowley moans when the surprise makes the fingers in her twist unexpectedly, hitting the spot that made all her muscles lock up.

“Lemme hear it, Crowley,” he growls and she whimpers in a wordless request.

Dean grins and repeats the motion, teasing her g-spot with deft fingers. “ _Oh my—Dean!_ ” she groans and a hand wanders down to clutch at his hair.

Smirking, he slips another finger into her heat and presses his thumb to her clit. She screams under his assault, trembling and writhing in desperation. “ _Dean! Please—_ ” she gasps and he leans down to press his mouth to her clit.

Crowley shrieks in delight as he laves the nub of flesh with his tongue, alternating patterns of pressure and placement along it, making it impossible for her to predict what he would do next.

This continues until she’s nearly ripping out his hair and she’s quivering under the onslaught of his fingers plunging into her, flicking her g-spot repeated, and his mouth as plays with her clit.

“Dean-Dean-Dean— _DEAN!_ ” she gasps. “ _Please!_ ”

Finally, he sucks on her clit and she flies apart with a scream that melds with the sudden crash of thunder.

In the wake of her orgasm, she shivers under him, throbbing around his fingers until he removes them and licks them clean before clambering up to kiss her. “Fucking…hell…Dean,” she gasps, still struggling for breath.

He grins. “Need a moment or you ready?”

“Now,” she snaps, and reaches to shove his boxers down.

As he kicks the offending article of clothing off, he pauses. “Do you have a—”

“Don’t need one,” Crowley replies. “Demon. Can’t get pregnant. Can’t get STDs. So _get in me now, Dean_ ,” she snarls and wraps her legs around his hips.

He grins. “Well, that works for me,” he shrugs and slowly slides into her. Both groan as his length fills her completely, head hitting her cervix just as his pelvic bone grinds against her clit.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he grunts, face over her shoulder in her hair.

“Not quite,” Crowley manages and pulls him in by his hair for a slow, deep kiss, the thrust of his tongue matching the slow thrust of his cock. Though unhurried, his thrusts were strong and powerful, no less delightful for his careful pace. The entire car shakes with it.

A glance to his face reveals eyes slammed shut, face clenched in concentration.

 _God_ , she manages to think. He’s got to be the best fuck she’s ever had besides Aziraphale.

Her hands slide down his back and scrape her nails at the small of his back, just above the swell of his arse. He gasps. “ _Crowley_ ,” he cries out and her hands go further to his arse, clenching his flesh eagerly.

“Oh, that arse,” she groans. “Been ogling that for years…”

Dean’s mouth leaves hers, to venture down to her chest, peppering them with kisses and nips. “’Sokay,” he grunts. “ _Oh God_ …you’ve made frequent guest appearances in my imagination when I’m in the shower. _Fuck_ , your tits are better than I hoped!”

She moans as he slams his full length into her and hikes up her leg from his hips to curl it over his shoulder, allowing him to thrust even deeper inside her.

“ _Dean_!” she screams again, squeezing her inner muscles around his length tightly.

A flash of lightning illuminates him and she can see everything: the smattering of freckles on his face and chest, the sweaty tousle of his hair, the wide impossibly green eyes, the rapturous expression. He thrusts in once more, and that’s all it takes for her to fly apart, screaming silently, hands clutching at his arse and fisting in his hair.

As she tightens and flutters around him, he still drives into her, determined.

Crowley grins and easily flips them over, sweat-slicked skin causing the leather to squeak loudly. Wasting no time, she plants her knees at his side and slams down upon him.

“Come on, Dean,” she calls, breasts bouncing before him. His hands clutch at her hips as she rides him, and she knows she will surely have bruises there tomorrow. “Let me hear it!”

He moans loudly, eyes fixed on the sight of her above him. “Crowley—Crowley— _Crowley_!” he shouts and slams up into her once more before she feels his cock throb inside her, followed by a flood of warmth. Finally, she allowed herself to slump tiredly, laying atop him, head resting comfortably on his shoulder as they both gasp for breath. His softening length remains inside her, but she doesn’t mind.

The rain has yet to let up, still pounding down upon the roof of the car and thunder still makes the windows rattle.

Eventually, she sits up to examine his face. “So, Dean. Having fucked yours truly knowingly…what’s the verdict?”

The hunter takes a moment to focus his eyes upon her, with visible effort to her amusement. “I…you… _fuck_.”

She chuckles. “Yes, that _is_ what we did.”

“That was…” he blinks and slowly wraps one arm around her. “ _Damn_.”

“If it makes you feel any better…I concur,” Crowley laughs. “So…seems like the rain’s not letting up anytime soon. How long til you’re up for round two?”

Dean stares. “Seriously? Um…”

She grins. “Would a blow job help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, I empathize with Greyson obviously. Asexuals FTW.
> 
> ...which is why me writing Crowley is hilarious. Such a sexual character...written by one who doesn't particularly care for sex.  
> Anyways. Well. Let me know if I got anything wrong?


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death

When her mobile rings, the screen informs her it is ‘Not Moose’ and she answers with a grin. “Dean, pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“You found the Blade yet?” he demands, straight to business.

She hums. “Give me a sec and I’ll be there.”

“Wait, wha—”

She hangs up and knocks on the door to the bunker that she now stands before. After a moment, Dean opens it, letting her in, still holding his phone.

With a wink, Crowley strides in past him and into their little Batcave. “’lo, Bobby, Kev, Moose.”

“Crowley,” Bobby nods. Kevin, busy reading, doesn’t respond.

Sam rolls his eyes at the moniker, but waves her over to his desk. “Any luck yet?”

Seating herself comfortably, she glances between the brothers. “Seriously, no ‘how are you’? ‘Are you doing alright’? ‘What’s up?’ Where’re your manners?” she scowls.

“Sorry,” Sam replies with a bitchface, looking up from his laptop. “Didn’t take you as one for small talk, Crowley.”

She snorts. “Try sweet talk, darling, maybe it’ll get you somewhere. Since you didn’t ask, in between my dives, I’ve been dealing with the last of my withdrawal—thank you, _Sammy_ for that…”

“Not sorry,” he mutters.

“…Still dealing with Abaddon, rooting out traitors— _and all that jazz_ ,” she sings throatily, sensually.

“Cool it, Velma Kelly,” Dean snaps. “Now—the First Blade?”

 “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I’d found it? Honestly. I searched the Pacific—swept the Mariana Trench, but no dice. The First Blade was not, as hoped, in the Trench. It had, in fact, been scooped up by an unmanned sub, from whom it was stolen by a research assistant, who reportedly sold it to Portuguese smugglers who, in turn, lost it to Moroccan pirates in a poker game.”

“What?” Sam asks in confusion.

The demon laughs. “Poor moose. It’s always a little tricky keeping up, isn't it?”

He sighs and pauses to work on his laptop for a moment…and her eyes wander from to the moose to the others in the room.

“What’re you doing?”

Sam’s voice snaps her from her thoughts and her eyes leave Dean to return to him. “Sorry. I’m still a little tainted by humanity. Makes me…sentimental.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Well, stop—stop staring at both of us. And Kevin. And Bobby. Seriously.”

But her gaze lingers on them both anyways, purposefully making it the hooded-eyed look of eye sex and undressing someone with their eyes.

“Oh, tsk, tsk. Both of you. Sam, dear…You and I both know we shared a mo back in that church. And Dean…facing the father of murder together, and all that led up to that….On some level, we’ve bonded, both of you. Can’t say I’m just any ol’ black-eyed demon to you.”

The boys glare.

Dean snaps, “Crowley, the only reason you are alive is that we need your help to deal with Abaddon 'cause she is an even worse pile of crap than you are—which is really sayin’ something, considering you’re Queen of the douchebags. That is the extent of our concern for you. Got it?”

She pouts, crossing her arms.

Sam asks, “What happened after the pirates?”

* * *

 

Later, she waits near an empty field, leaning against the Impala.

It’s been two weeks since her and Dean’s little tryst, and the sight of the Impala still causes a little thrill, a little shiver. When she got in the back seat, sitting behind Dean, she might have allowed her hand to caress the back of his neck briefly.

(She wonders how difficult it was to get the scent of sex out of the car.)

Now, the brothers have disappeared into Cuthbert Sinclair’s little invisible fun house.

Until Sam comes rushing through the woods. “Magnus has Dean,” he exclaims, hurrying to the Impala’s trunk.

“Fuck,” he mutters, digging through the contents of the trunk.

“Maybe later,” she absently responds, racking her mind for a plan.

He glares and snatches up the demon-killing knife. “You mind?” he snaps, glaring furiously. “Back off.”

She snorts, but gives him his space. “Who would have thunk it, eh, Moose—you and me, same team, in the trenches. When this is over, we can get matching tattoos.”

Picking up a file box, he glares. “Just to be clear, Crowley, we are not on the same anything,” he replies, though it’s with less ire than before. “By the way, since the place is warded, your powers are _useless_ , which means you are _useless_ , even more so than usual.”

Crowley scowls, still leaning against the side of the Impala, watching as he digs through the files. “You're gonna need another set of hands when you get in there, unless you have other volunteers in mind, of course.”

“Thanks,” he mutters. “Pass.”

She sighs. “Look. If memory serves me, _I'm_ the one who helped your brother find Cain so that we could find the Blade, so that Dean could receive the Mark. _I'm_ the one who flushed that lout Gadreel out of your noggin. So, lately, big boy, I've gotten more action than you…in both senses.”

“Crowley, will you _please_ shut the hell up?” he growls in exasperation.

She huffs. “Well, it’s not like I owe you anything—you locked me up in that damn dungeon again. Don’t care if it’s in the name of ‘sobriety’—that pissed me off.”

“For your own good,” he mutters.

She sniffs and changes the subject. “You and Dean seem to be walking on eggshells around each other. I can practically smell the secrets.”

“What’s it to you?” Sam asks, scowling. “What d’you want to do? Give us a counseling session?”

“I'm not great at brotherly advice,” she snorts. “Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment instead?”

He groans in utter aggravation. “I don’t care if the knife won’t work or not—I _will_ stab you in the throat if you don’t shut up.”

“Touchy, touchy…”

Sometime later, he finally speaks up. “Here’s something. Apparently he wanted to make the entire Men of Letters bunker invisible. All physical points of entry were to be eliminated and entrance would only be gained…by spell.” She grins as he continues. “Oh…we’re gonna need some things. You might actually turn out to be useful, Crowley.”

She glares. “I’m always useful, Moose. It’s just a matter of finding one best suited for me. Spells, acquisitions, possession, research, seduction, blow jobs—”

“I’m good for now, thanks,” Sam replies calmly. “How about acquisitions instead?”

* * *

 

Watching him mix the ingredients, she grins. “I did good, eh, moose? Everything on the list.” He ignores the demon, instead walking away with the bowl. “You're welcome!” she exclaims, following.

“Remember,” he instead replies. “Stay close, do what I say, and shut the hell up.”

She grins at the lack of fire in his tone. “I'm growing on you, aren't I?”

Again, he ignores her and begins the spell.

* * *

 

Inside, it doesn’t take long for Sam to get captured. She watches from a distance until Magnus’s back is turned and she unchains Dean with a twitch of her fingers.

When he decapitates Magnus, it is sudden and cold; Crowley jumps, startled, and steps back as she cautiously watches the hunter.

Dean trembles, clutching the First Blade with a white-knuckled grip; he glares at Crowley and there’s something not quite human in his eyes.

Sam steps forward slowly. “Dean? Dean…Hey, it's over. He's dead.” Slowly, Dean’s eyes slide to the Blade with possessive fury as the Mark on his arm glows. His face twitches into a snarl, not hearing his brother. “Drop the Blade, Dean… _Dean!_ ”

Suddenly, his expression flickers and he looks to Sam, who tells him, “Drop the Blade.” With shaking hands, he does, letting the weapon clatter to the floor.

Crowley’s gaze flickers between the brothers carefully, thoughtfully, and knows that it’s time to put her backup plan into motion.

* * *

 

“Brilliant, I must say,” she says conversationally as they trek through the brush to the Impala. “I'm speaking of myself, of course. All you two managed to do was get trussed up. Combine a little derring-do on my part, a little dumb muscle from squirrel, a little bleeding from moose…Happy ending. Roll credits—”

She falls silent, however, when she sees the Impala.

“No, no!” Dean shouts, running to the car. “Come on. What the hell?”

The doors are open and everything looks ransacked.

“That's sulfur—demons,” Sam realizes.

“Abaddon’s,” Crowley snarls.

From the back seat, the older hunter is checking the car nervously. “Well, she's just one jump behind us. How’d she even find us?!”

The demon growls as she snatches a coin—complete with a tracking spell—from under the back seat. “She followed. Guess they couldn’t get find Magnus’s place either, so they took the opportunity to check the Impala.”

“What about the trunk?” Dean asks.

“Safe. Warding kept them out,” Sam replies in relief.

He grumbles furiously, “Demon mitts all over my baby…” Dean shuts the doors and shouts in utter fury. “Oh, _come on_! Oh, now they're keying cars?!”

Sam pauses to look at the graffiti as Dean scrubs at it desperately. “What language is that?”

The demon stalks forward furiously. “It's Enochian. The message isn't for you—it's for _me_. ‘Be afraid. Your Queen.’ Abaddon's getting more brazen. She thinks I'm losing my grip. That little _slut_ —”

Neither listen anymore to her. Sam turns to his brother. “Dean. _Dean_.” Finally, the elder turns. “Listen, you said Crowley was only useful till we got the Blade…we got the Blade.”

They turn to her and she smiles politely as she slams them into the side of the car. She sighs. “You know, boys, I'm in debt to you. You forced sobriety on me, and now I can see the situation for what it is,” she explains coolly. “Dean, you are _quite_ the killing machine. And it occurs to me that Abaddon is not the only name on your list. My name must be up there, as well.”

He all but snarls at her. “It's no good to you without me.”

The Queen of Hell gives a polite nod and draws the Blade into her hands. “Indeed. But as long as I have it, it's no good to you,” she purrs. “Now, this is the way it's going to go—I’ll hang on to old donkey teeth here until such time as you locate Abaddon. Then you'll destroy her.

“You're right, Moose,” she prowls forward and runs a hand through the ridiculous mop of hair on his head. “You can't trust me. But, sadly, I can't trust you, either.”

She shrugs and tucks the Blade into her coat’s inner pocket. “Right, now that business is settled,” she adds and releases them.

“Crowley…” Sam mutters, drawing the demon-killing knife.

But she merely laughs. “Oh, _please_ ,” she grins. “You know that doesn’t work on me. Why waste the time? Oh—and Dean? You’re welcome.”

“For what?” he snarls.

The demon motions to his car and they turn to find the scratchings gone from the Impala. “Thanks…” Dean reluctantly mutters.

“Now, shall we get home to the housewives?”

* * *

 

That night, when Dean returns to his room, he does not find it unoccupied.

“Crowley, what the fuck—”

She smiles from where she’s lounging on his bed. “Dean,” she purrs in welcome, but he only manages to sputter rather than formulating a comprehensible reply.

It helps that she’s naked.

“So?” she chuckles. “Are you just going to leave the door open for everyone to see me? Oh, God—do you think Kevin’s even _seen_ a naked woman before?”

Quickly, he slams the door shut, locks it, and turns back to her. “Crowley, I—look, do you not remember that I’m pissed at you?” he demands.

With a grin, she climbs off the bed sensuously and comes to stand before him. “Of course I remember. But angry sex is quite fun, don’t you think?”

“I—uh,” he pauses, eyes rolling down her curves. “Still, um, our little secret?”

“Of course,” Crowley smiles.

He stares for a long moment, fighting with himself, before he sighs. “You know what, fuck it.”

The demon laughs. “Well, I’d much prefer if you fuck me, but…”

Interrupting, he pulls her in for a forceful kiss.

* * *

 

Hours later, after they finally finish, both collapse to the bed.

“God, I love angry sex,” she sighs as she sprawls upon his bed.

“Yeah…tha’ was…great,” he agrees, curling around her, and she suppresses a smile because who knew—Dean Winchester, a post-coital cuddler.

Crowley yawns as she runs a hand through her sweat-dampened curls. “It always is between us. Good team. We make for a good fuck.”

Yawning, the hunter mumbles a sleepy agreement, head pillowed on her breasts. She smiles, running her hands through his hand relaxingly. “Sleep, Dean,” she whispers into his ear. “Sleep…”

He nestles comfortably upon her breasts, arms wrapping easily around her waist, with a contented mumble as he indeed begins to sleep.

There, she remains: naked, hot, and sticky from various body fluids, Crowley smiles coolly as Dean curls around her.

Demons—and fallen angels, for that matter—don’t need to sleep. So she lays there contentedly though the night, stroking his hair, smiling cunningly to herself.

* * *

 

Near three, he begins twitching and mumbling in his sleep, caught in the grip of some nightmare. She can barely comprehend his brother’s name amongst the noises that begin escaping him before it escalates quickly and he’s all but writhing, kicking, shouting.

Quickly, the demon touches a finger to his forehead, snapping him awake. With a gasp, his eyes snap open, but his breathing does not calm.

Crowley, of all people, recognizes the beginnings of a panic attack. Carefully, she pulls him to her bosom and rubs his back as she murmurs comforting thoughts into his ear and gets him to breathe.

“It’s alright, it’ll be okay,” she whispers. “Just breathe, you’re okay, Sam’s okay, and so are Bobby and Kevin and you. You’re alright, just keep breathing with me. Nice and slow, yes?” She pulls his head up to meet her gaze and coaxes him to match her breathing. Shuddering and hiccupping from near sobs, Dean slowly calms.

Avoiding her gentle scrutiny, he mutters, “Thanks.”

Slowly, she presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I know how that feels. I’ve had my share of night terrors and panic attacks, Dean. It’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

He nods slowly and gets comfortable once more so he can return to slumber. This time, if he clings a little closer, holds her a little tighter, well. It’s their little secret.

* * *

 

Shortly later, while Moose is away on a hunt, Dean leaves the bunker for a night at a bar. She listens in as he talks with his brother and lies about working to find Abaddon.

As he hangs up, she slides into the other side of the booth. “You're lying to Sam like he's your wife, which…kind of makes me your mistress, darling.”

With a glare, he stands, taking his beer with him, and walks to the billiards table. Crowley watches calmly as he rakes up a queue of pool balls on the pool table with his arms—admiring the muscles in said arms as he does so.

“What do you want?” he grumbles.

She snorts. “You tell me, Romeo. You rang. Let me guess—you butt-dialed me?” the demon grins. “Or was it a booty call?”

Glaring over the pool table, he replies, “Whatever the hell a butt-dial is, sure, yeah. Either way, we done here?”

“Actually,” she replies. “Long as I'm here, last time we chitchatted, we agreed that you were gonna line up Carrot Top.”

He rolls his eyes, rearranging the pool balls. “Yep, well…I’m on it.”

The Queen of Hell snorts, leaning against the side of the pool table, watching as he searches for the chalk. “Unless Abaddon likes ten-cent wings, stale beer, and the clap, I _highly_ doubt that she's here.” She clears her throat and holds up the chalk.

Pool stick in hand, he stalks up to her, glaring from inches away. Instantly, the sexual tension knocks up ten degrees and she raises an eyebrow.

Snatching the chalk, he mutters, “Go to hell.”

Crowley laughs. “Oh, if only. What’s going on with you, huh? You call me, you hang up. You want me, you don’t want me. You want Abaddon, you don't want Abaddon. You want the Blade, you don't want the Blade. If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you're stalling.”

He ignores her question and sights up his pool stick and breaks. So she leans forward, offering a more enticing view of her breasts—highlighted by the light hanging over the pool table. The fallen angel was dressed more subtly this time, more suited to the cheap bar: a simple scarlet tank top and tight jeans.

“Just between us girls, how did you _feel_ when you sunk the First Blade into Magnus’ neck?” she asks curiously.

Looking up from sighting his next shot, his eyes catch on her breasts but continue quickly up to glare at her. “Not half as good as I’m gonna feel when it’s yours,” he promises and shoots.

She chuckles lowly, sitting on the edge of the pool table as she scoops up the cue ball. “Love it when you talk dirty. Gets me all hot and bothered. But…you know what I think?”

As he straightens, she circles around the table to lean against him. “I think you felt _powerful_ …” she purrs. “Virile…And afraid.”

He scoffs. “Afraid?”

Setting the cue ball aside, she trails one hand up his chest to his chin. “Don’t scam a scam artist, darling. You're stalling…‘cause you’re _scared_.”

Glaring, he sets the pool stick aside and stalks over to the bar. Seating herself beside him, she whistles to the bartender and signals for two drinks. “I love this. I really do. Couple of cold ones, a kind jukebox… Good and evil, bro-in' down.”

“Shut your pie hole, Crowley,” he snaps.

“Yeah, you said that already,” she replies flatly and sighs, turning her whole body to face him. “Look, I merely suggested you might be a bit scared.”

He glares at her. “Yeah. No, I heard you the first time. You still don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Crowley laughs, eyebrows raised, and reaches over to caress his right forearm where the Mark is covered. He recoils. “I know that Cain gave you his Mark for a reason. And I know that rather than embracing it, rather than looking at it as the _gift_ that it is, you're sulking like you lost your knuffle bunny. Why are you fighting what you really are?”

Stubborn as ever, he shakes his head. “I'm a hunter,” he states simply.

“Who's a chip off the old Mark of Cain,” she nods.

He glares, leaning in to snarl in her face. “ _No_. When I kill, I kill for a reason. I'm nothing like Cain.” His voice lowers in volume as the bartender hands them their beers.

While he takes a drink, she gapes. “Nothing like—who are you talking to? I _know_ you're not talking to me, darling.”

“Eat me.”

“Seriously, Dean? Not the time for propositions. I saw you. I saw the two of you _together_. Nothing like Cain? What's in that bottle? Delusion?” she snorts and glances at him in concern. “I'm really starting to worry about you, Dean.” Her voice is soft, worried, touching his unmarked arm carefully.

“Yeah, well, why don't you worry about yourself?” he grumbles.

“I will. ‘Cause like it or not, we’re in this _together_. Your problems, my problems— _our_ problems,” she bites out and stands.

He looks up curiously. “Where you going now?”

The demon turns, hip cocked. “To powder my nose. Why? Care to join me for a quickie in the back?” Dean rolls his eyes. “So serious.”

She stalks off and listens carefully, watching invisibly.

Unsurprisingly, he jumps up and hurries after the hunter following her. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Easy. I know what you're thinking.”

“I'm thinking I'd like to take a leak, so move.”

“I'm Dean Winchester. And I know a hunter when I see one. You don't want to do what you're about to do.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you're packing a knife to a demon fight, and you don't stand a chance,” Dean promises.

“Then I'll go down swinging,” the hunter nods.

“Hey, hey, hey. Listen to me. Any other day, I'd be right there with you, brother. I would, okay? But you got to trust me on this one.”

He isn’t impressed. “Or you could grow a pair and come with.”

Dean glares. “You ever taken on a demon before?” Silence. “Yeah. Well, trust me when I say that when she’s done with _you_ , she’s gonna go after your family. She’s gonna go after your friends. Hell, she’ll go after your prom date. So, if you want to do that, if you want to damn anyone and everyone you've ever loved in the slightest chance that you could win, then by all means, pal. You go right ahead. Because I promise—she don’t look like much, but she will eat you for breakfast, then go after everyone you love for lunch and dinner.”

“…I got a kid sister. She don’t deserve that.”

“What's your name?”

“Jake.”

“Good to meet you, Jake.”

“…Thanks.”

“I'll see you around,” Dean nods and bangs on the door of the ladies’ room. “Come on, we gotta go.”

She waits, curious, until he walks in.

“Dean?” she smiles slyly. “Taking me up on that offer for a quickie?”

He glares. “Demons don't take leaks. Next time you want to shoot up, why don't you find a better excuse?”

The demon shrugs. “Guilty as charged,” she lies.

“What happened?” he asks. “I thought you were cleaning up your act.”

“Well, I was going to, but then after very little soul-searching, I decided to _embrace_ my addiction,” she replies simply. “What about you? Takes a junkie to know a junkie. You just want to touch that precious again, don't you?” She pauses. “And no, I’m not referring to my fine arse. Although your presence here implies otherwise…”

He glares and sighs. “I want to kill Abaddon. _That’s_ what I want. So, whatever happens with the Blade, I can't worry about that.”

Crowley sneers doubtfully. “Sure. Whatever you got to tell yourself so you can sleep better at night, darling.”

His lips thin at the reference to their last night together that included his nightmare and panic attack. “Look, what I want, what I fear, none of that means _squat_. Because this is the _one_ chance that we have to kill Abaddon. So, I'm all in, no matter what the consequences.”

Raising her brows, she prompts, “So the plan remains the same?”

“I find her, you bring the Blade,” he agrees.

She smirks. “It's a date.”

“Good,” he mutters and turns to leave, but, before he can grab the doorknob, she catches his shoulder and pushes him against the door.

She leans in, mere inches away from him, and cocks her head. “Seems a shame, you know…we’re already here, darling. And I’ll keep anyone from hearing or interrupting. So…what’d you say?” Crowley purrs, mouth nearly touching his lips.

Dean is the one who leans forward to pull her into the kiss. Quickly, she is spun around and pinned to the door.

It doesn’t escape her notice that he hasn’t bothered inquiring about her secrecy.

He trusts her.

 _Good_.

* * *

 

Afterwards, he leaves and Crowley watches him go as ‘Jake the hunter’ walks up.

“For a second there, I thought he had me,” the demon mutters.

She laughs. “He has… _other_ things on his mind.”

Greyson snorts, eyeing her tousled hair and disheveled clothes. “I’m sure. But he did exactly what you said he would. He saved you.”

Crowley nods smugly. “Of course he saved me. We’re besties…and lovers. And now he's ready.”

* * *

 

“…so here’s the thing, boys and girls. We have a crisis on our hands,” Crowley informs her board. “Admittedly, a crisis of my own making but, still. In my extended absence while I dealt with… _sensitive_ matters of state, Abaddon made an in to my following, creating chaos. So…I look to you…my  _trusted_ advisors to  _restore_ confidence, to soothe those jangled nerves.

“Spread the word: the Queen is _back_ ,” she announces smugly. “And the Queendom is once again on sound footing. So, all those with me, say yo!”

Silence. She glances around furiously as they shift apprehensively.

“Yo.” She turns and finds Abaddon in the doorway. “I mean, I’m literally with you, not… _with you_ , with you.”

With a snarl curling her lips, she turns to the traitors. “You _betrayed_ me?!” she hisses. “No one in the history of torture has been tortured with torture like the _torture you’ll be tortured with!_ ”

Abaddon snorts, striding in. “Relax, everyone. You did the new Queen a solid—you are sitting at the popular kids’ table.” She smiles, holding her martini as she sits. “Now Crowley, let’s talk turkey. I know you helped the Winchesters get their hands on the First Blade, yes? And I’m hearing that one of them also has the Mark of Cain. All bad news, since the Blade is the one thing that can bring about my—”

“ _Utter destruction_ ,” Crowley supplies coldly.

The Knight laughs unamused. “To be indelicate. But here’s the thing, pet…same goes for you. And once I’m gone, who do you think is next on those cute boys’ list? That’s right. So let’s get real. Join me and take out the Winchesters and that _ridiculous_ Blade and _then_ we’ll deal with each other.”

Crowley hums, prowling forward to stare, unimpressed. “To be clear…I’ll not be joining you. _Ever._ Except…at your death scene, in which I will burst into song. Goodbye, Abaddon. You have no hold on me.”

“Oh no?” the ginger asks, smirking, and snaps her fingers, making a young man appear, dressed in the style of several centuries ago. “Gavin, honey. Say hello to Mummy.”

The fallen angel laughs. “Oh, Abby, Abby, Abby…I appreciate the effort, really— _I do_ , but…oh come on, did you _really_ think little ol’ me was Fiona MacLeod? Sorry, wrong. Try another bag of bones or weak spot. Because this little fucker isn’t my kid and I don’t give a fuck what happens to him.

Smirking, Abaddon replies, “Don’t try to trick me, Crowley. It’s not that easy. Besides. I know all about your little… _problem_. Binging on blood…going right to the edge of being human again. All those human feelings…”

“I’m clean.”

“And I’m willing to bet there’s a smidge of humanity left in there _somewhere_ ,” the Knight smirks.

Crowley shrugs. “Not a chance.”

The redhead smiles cruelly and motions with her hand, making the boy cry out in pain as blood pours from his eyes. Crowley, meanwhile, sat down comfortably in a chair and conjured up some whisky to enjoy. “Should I get popcorn?” she asks.

“I’m blind!” the boy screams in anguish, shaking, eye sockets empty and gaping. “Please, don’t—I beg you!”

“You know these ghoulish tricks don’t impress,” Crowley shrugs. “I’ve seen worse, felt worse, done worse.”

The boy collapses, writhing in a pool of blood, screaming. “ _Please! I beg you! PLEASE!_ ”

Eventually, Abaddon flicks her hand, stopping the boy’s torment and making him vanish to whence he came. “Alright, I thought that might not work. Good thing I brought back up,” she grins and the doors behind her fly open.

“—the hell am I?”

Her smirk falters. “…Bobby.” The hunter stares at her in confusion.

Abaddon chuckles. “Heard you had a soft spot for the old bastard. Wouldn’t want to make him suffer the same, now would you?”

“You’ve made your point,” Crowley snarls. “Fine.”

Bobby stumbles into the room. “Crowley, what the fuck is going on—”

“Bobby Singer,” she replies simply, “Meet Abaddon, Knight of Hell, angriest ginger ever, resident pain in my royal arse.”

He glares at the Knight. “ _You_.”

She smiles. “Hello, Bobby. I’ve just heard _so_ much about you. I was curious and Crowley was being…stubborn.”

Said fallen angel glares. “What do you want, Abaddon?”

* * *

 

It takes an absurdly long time for Dean to answer his phone. “It’s about time, where the hell have you been?” he growls.

“I told you I’d be in touch when I found Abaddon. Well, I’m in touch.”

His tone instantly changes. “Where are you?”

She chuckles. “First things first, I’ll give you the location of the First Blade, you two fetch it, I’ll keep her in my sights, then we’ll remove her from the pay roll for good.”

* * *

 

It’s an honest mistake when the hellhounds go after the boys as they get the Blade.

“ _I’m gonna put you on speaker_ ,” Dean snaps.

She rolls her eyes. “Juliet, it’s Mama. Stand down,” she calls, and the growls calm into obedient whimpers. “You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

The next time he calls, it’s good news. “ _We got the Blade_.”

“Good,” Crowley replies. “You need to get here at once. Cleveland, Humblt Hotel. Penthouse, of course. When you get here, I’ll take you to Abaddon. I’ll draw her out and then you can skewer the ignorant hag.”

She glances at Abaddon and mouths innocently, “Just selling it.”

“ _Alright, we’re on our way_ ,” Dean replies. “ _But, quick question—you heard from Bobby lately? Kevin called and said he disappeared in the middle of the night._ ”

Snorting, she rolls her eyes. “Do I look like I keep track of your old, grizzled alcoholic? But…he did mention being on a hunt. Something about a nest of vamps up in Poughkeepsie.”

“… _right_ ,” he mutters and hangs up.

As she sets the phone aside, Abaddon watches with her arms crossed. “Nice. But here’s the thing. You’ve been plotting with those boys for some time now. When they get here, it’ll be you, the Winchesters, the First Blade, and little old me in one place. Now I don’t mind stiff odds, but…let’s be reasonable,” she says and whips a gun out of a drawer, shooting Crowley quickly.

With a cry of surprise, she falls into a chair, hands over the bloody hole in her chest.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Crowley shouts.

The Knight chuckles. “Little trick I learned from Henry Winchester. He pulled the same stunt on me. I had a devil’s trap carved into the bullet. You’re not seriously damaged,” Abaddon shrugs. “Just… _powerless_.”

* * *

 

The door slides open.

“Hello, Dean,” Crowley calls, still slumped in the chair. “Love the crazy bloodlust in your eyes.”

He doesn’t miss the blood and taps his chest in silent question.

“There’s always time,” she says calmly. “I’ll take you to Abaddon. It’s not far—” She throws a glance over her shoulder in warning and he jumps just in time to stab the demon waiting to ambush him.

Just before Abaddon sends him flying into the wall. “A boy and his Blade…and _still_ no chance for the new Queen.” She laughs. “So first, you’ll die. Painfully. And then Crowley will watch her dear friend or lover or pet—whatever that louse is—die. And then the former Queen herself. And the Blade destroyed…well, it’s quite a to do list.”

Though out of sight, pinned to the wall behind her, Crowley can hear the hunter struggling against the Knight’s power. Watching Abaddon’s face, she can determine the exact minute when he overpowers it and manages to step forward. Until she hears the Blade clatter to the floor.

The devil’s trap bullet in her chest prevents any demonic mojo from happening. Luckily, it’s not all demon powers in her.

It takes a lot of concentration to focus on the small bit of angelic power she had retained, but it’s not long before she slams the Knight to the floor. “Now, Dean!”

Blade in hand, he stalks forward—and _oh_. The sight of her dying is a beautiful thing, really.

The sight of Dean performing what is the definition of _overkill_ , however, is actually rather scary. Across the room, his brother is shouting for him to stop.

Finally, he does—head jumping up, speckled with blood, as he drops the Blade.

* * *

 

She glares at the brothers as she’s forced to dig out the bullet with a knife. “You could at least offer to help with this,” Crowley mutters.

Sam doesn’t bother look at her. “We didn’t kill you, Crowley. Even though it would have been very easy. Isn’t that enough?”

The demon glares. “You owe me—do I get _no_ credit for warning you this is a trap?!”

Bitchface number five is his response.

“Poughkeepsie ring a bell?” she demands. Genuine confusion pulls at his face until he looks to Dean.

She glances between the two of them and chuckles. “Oh, I sense drama.”

Dean changes the subject. “I just can’t believe Crowley has a _friend_. Or something like it, according to Abaddon.”

The reminder makes her pause. “Ah. Go and, er, open those doors, would ya?” she asks and shouts as she manages to extract the damn bullet.

Curious, the hunter goes over and—“ _Bobby!_ ”

“Dean, how the hell did you get here?!” the drunk exclaims. “Crowley, you wanna explain what the hell is goin’ on?”

She shrugs. “Abaddon wanted leverage and thought you were the best bet. Sorry about that. At least I conceded defeat before you were tortured.”

* * *

 

Later, she goes to her office and summons Greyson back from his mission in Korea.

“Yes, ma’am?” he inquires curiously.

“I need you to send out messages to everyone.” The smirk upon her lips has remained there without conscious effort, so smug and flushed with victory is she. “Announce it to everyone and have the traitors tracked down. Abaddon is dead.”

Her assistant smiles. “Hell is yours, my Queen.”

“Yes,” she purrs. “As it should be.”

Now. Time to deal with part two of her plan.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end approaches.

She tracks down the nearest angel, who immediately draws her angel blade upon Crowley’s arrival.

“Oh, please,” she sighs and sends the angel flying into a wall, pinning her there.

“What do you want, demon?” the angel snarls.

She sighs. “Now, now. Nothing so….malicious, really. Tell your boss…your God…whatever it is that you lot call him now—tell Metatron I need to speak with him.” Crowley pauses to produce an envelope from her coat pocket and slides it into the angel’s hand. “Give that to Metatron and tell him I will see him tonight. Now, fly away little one.”

The angel vanishes, presumably off to Heaven, and the Queen of Hell smiles.

* * *

 

The knock on his office door makes him reluctantly look up from his typewriter. “Yes?”

Zophiel enters, looking harried and panicked. “Sir, the demon Crowley—she found me and told me to give you this,” she explains and holds out a crisp grey envelope. He takes it curiously and studies it.

Thick, expensive paper. ‘ _Metatron_ ’ written in elegant cursive on the front, with a little halo drawn above the M. On the back, it is sealed with a dollop of blood red wax, the seal of a signet ring pressed into it, a ‘C’ the centerpiece of it.

He hums as he breaks the wax seal and removes the letter.

> _Metatron,_
> 
> _It is time you and I had a meeting. I have made reservations for dinner at seven. No lackeys, no weapons, no fighting, just good old-fashioned talking. That’s what you like, isn’t it? Words. Just words, I give you my oath._
> 
> _Don’t be late, it isn’t polite, darling._
> 
> _\- Crowley, Queen of Hell_

Below is the address of a high class restaurant in Chicago.

He smiles to himself.

* * *

 

She’s already there when he arrives.

The demon is relaxed, looking utterly calm and at home at the private table. The Queen of Hell is wearing an elegant dove grey gown that clings to her curves. When she turns, he can see how it revealed the length of her back and how the neckline falls low upon her breasts. The fabric shines silver in the soft lighting of the restaurant. Dark curls are piled elegantly atop her head.  just as regal and elegant as royalty should be, and just as sinful as the Queen of Hell should be.

“Metatron,” she greets him pleasantly, sipping at a glass of red wine.

He nods as he seats himself. “Crowley, pleasure.”

Her scarlet lips curve upward. “Pleasure is all mine,” she purrs. “Thank you for accepting the invitation. Wine?”

“Please,” he nods and she fills his glass. “Now, what business have we to discuss?”

She chuckles. “Business before pleasure, hmm? If we must. Now, it’s come to my attention that Castiel’s followers have abandoned him and joined you, yes? Well, except those denim-wrapped nightmares, of course—but I expected nothing less.”

“You have excellent sources,” he acknowledges, amused.

The demon tosses her head back in a hearty laugh. “I’m sorry—was it supposed to be secret? My dear, _everyone_ knows. And may I say, congratulations,” she replies and raises her glass in a toast.

“Thank you, Crowley. I hear you are deserving of congratulations as well—the attempted usurper is dead, yes?”

“Yes, I tricked the Winchesters into offing her for me,” she grins. “I was quite proud of that machination, the little fools.”

The Scribe of God pauses. “Yes, but Dean Winchester now has the Mark of Cain, doesn’t he? That could be…quite a problem for us both.”

“Of course—he could kill us both,” she replies easily. “That’s why I thought we would both benefit from an…agreement, of sorts, between us. Enemy of my enemy and all that. Besides, you’re the new God and I’m the new Devil. Two sides of the same coin. You need the Devil, I need God—such is the natural order, the natural balance. Wouldn’t it be better to have a somewhat tentative truce between us make it easier for everyone? You can focus on gaining humanity’s love and devotion, and getting Heaven back as it should be. I can focus on reorganizing Hell and rooting out traitors, et cetera. And we can collaborate in hunting down the Hardy Boys and their pet angel.”

Metatron smiles. “I think I can agree to that.”

After that, they settle in to enjoy their meal and chat about literature and film, which she is very knowledgeable about, thankfully, but they eventually meander back to their situation.

“…Yes,” he eventually admits. “God needs the Devil, it’s the natural balance of things. And it’s so much simpler when we’re working together.”

She laughs. “In your gospels, the Devil isn’t your primary antagonist, how interesting.”

“No, that position is reserved for Castiel and his friends, the foolish rebels,” he sighs. “You, on the other hand, are the Femme Fatale of our tale.”

The demon leans forward with a smirk. “Femme Fatale, hmm?”

“Of couse, the _fatal woman_ —mysterious and seductive, using her wit and wiles to accomplish her goals,” he grins. “There is no more suiting a role for the Queen of Hell, seducing and tempting people into sin.”

Crowley laughs, low and husky in her throat. “Flattery will get you _everywhere_ , darling,” she purrs.

“I’m sure,” the angel chuckles.

“Tell me, Metatron,” she asks softly. “Why this vessel?”

It catches him off guard. “Marv? Oh, well, he’s been my vessel for years. He suits my purposes, I suppose.”

She hums quietly. “Not very good for attracting lovers, though, I’d assume. How long has it been—years? Centuries? Forever?” she breathes lowly, the warm air of her words fanning across his cheek.

“It’s been a decent period of time, I suppose,” he murmurs, watching her intently.

Her lips curve with a smile, her eyes slipped down from his gaze. “Care to fix that?” she murmurs and presses her lips to his.

For a moment, he allows it, and she takes the opportunity to press herself against him.

It is only a moment, however, before he pulls away, chuckling. “Oh, my little femme fatale…” he grins, shaking his head merrily as she pouts.

“Oh, you’re no fun,” she grumbles.

“Business before pleasure, and I don’t mix them,” he replies simply.

She nods and winks. “Well, if you change your mind…find me.”

* * *

 

When he leaves, she wards herself with powerful spells and sigils, and follows. She’s invisible and undetectable to angels, to her delight—even to an angel superpowered by the angel tablet. So she follows him, even when he vanishes away to a small high school in Oregon, where he goes to a locked janitorial closet.

The coin she had slipped into his pocket during their brief kiss allows her to track him and he leads her right to his portable door to Heaven.

She watches, but does not follow him. Carefully, she weaves a few spells upon the portal, untraceable and unnoticeable to all but her, and carefully locks on to the door. Even when he undoubtedly moves it, she will be able to find it.

Metatron may have written her off as a femme fatale, but that isn’t all Crowley is. This blunder, of mistaking her for a simple stock character is his story, will be his undoing.

Now, she waits.

 

* * *

 

Despite that she has Fallen, she still has angel radio. She just usually tunes it out because of the obnoxious, vague chitter chatter.

But this announcement forces her to listen, blocking everything else out.

“ _Hello? This is Metatron…_ ” he pauses, and the reverb vanishes as he speaks. “ _I’d like to take a moment to welcome you all back. I want you to know how moved I am that you’ve accepted me as your new God. My heart, as they say, is full. Which is why I want to share some wonderful news with you: I’m going on a short trip. Heaven’s door will be temporarily closed until I return, but rest assured: all will be explained. And it will be…glorious_.”

Well, that made things easier.

* * *

 

Crowley groans, nearly orgasmic in pleasure, during the massage.

Honestly, this demon. Her hands were magic. It was blissful to feel her work the knots out of her bare back.

“I thought you’d be more relaxed,” she says to the Queen, “Having defeated Abaddon.”

“What can I say, I wear my stress,” Crowley murmurs in response.

“You know, with so many demons coming back to your side, it’s only natural they would look to their _Queen_ for some…direction,” the demon replies softly.

She stills. “Love, if I’d wanted a sappy massage from Dr Phil, I would have hit number three on speed dial,” she snaps.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Lila replies softly, before the room quakes. “I believe you’re being summoned.”

Crowley looks up in aggravation.

“I believe it’s a Winchester.”

She sighs and throws on a short silk robe before zapping away.

* * *

 

She finds herself in the bunker’s dungeon and she casts a glance around in surprise. “What’s that smell?” she mutters, wrinkling her nose.

 _Sulfur?_ Well it wasn’t from her, she was careful to prevent that vile stench from following her.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt your spa time,” Dean snaps. “Was that why you’re late?”

 “Is there a reason for this merry gathering, or can I return to my massage?” she snips impatiently.

Dean glares. “What the hell is happening to me, you son of a bitch?”

She shrugs. “Liquor before beer, bad taco—how should I know?”

“I can’t turn it off,” he nearly shouts in frustration. “Ever since I killed Abaddon, it’s like this whole…other thing—I get this high and I _need_ to kill. I mean I really, _really_ need to kill and if I don’t—”

“You yack your guts out,” she finishes for him, watching the antsy hunter warily. “It’s the Mark.”

 _Damn_. She had hoped…

Well, it didn’t matter. It was only further confirmation of what she already knew.

“Meaning?” he prompts.

“It wants you to kill, darling. The more you kill, the better you feel. The less you kill, the less better you feel.”

He stares, worried now, as he should be. “How much less better?”

“Well…I imagine the _least_ best better.”

“So, dead.” The demon nods with a grimace. “Okay, but—Cain had the Mark, he didn’t die.”

“ _Cain_ was a demon,” she snaps softly. “Your body isn’t strong enough to contain the Blade’s power.”

He pauses, hand going to cover the Mark. “What if I get rid of it?”

“D’you wanna get rid of it?” Crowley asks.

Dean struggles internally, before he replies simply, “What I want is Metatron.”

“And…?”

“But I have to get through that door and get the Blade,” he glares. “And you’re gonna help me.”

She smiles. “Now that…that I can do,” she purrs. “Just let me out of the devil’s trap and I’ll get right on it.”

The hunter comes forward to the very edge of the trap, eyes dark as they travel up her bare legs, to the minimal covering that the robe provides, to her breasts with her nipples pebbling visibly under the silk of the robe.

“Yeah, we’ll get to that,” he agrees quietly, “But first…”

Dean steps into the devil’s trap, scraping a bit of paint away with the heel of his shoe as he goes, and pushes her against the wall as he attacks her mouth.

His hands lift her hips until she wraps her legs around him, letting him support her weight completely as he bites and sucks on her neck.

Reaching between them, she attacks his belt and jeans while groaning at his mouth’s ministrations. With his pants and boxers shoved down just enough and her robe riding up, he thrusts into her roughly, making her cry out at the sudden force of it. As her back slams into the wall repeatedly from his ruthless pace, her fingernail scrape down his back and she gasps for air.

There are no words, only desperation and lust between them as they fuck until finally, they finish and he lowers her to the ground.

Within minutes, he’s on his feet again, fixing his clothes, while she watches calmly, curiously.

“The door?” he asks.

Crowley gestures vaguely, allowing him out, and she watches him go, beginning to worry quite a bit.

* * *

 

“Woah, woah—not gonna eat your food?” she points at the burger.

“Not hungry.”

Crowley stares at Dean’s back as he leaves and something heavy drops into her stomach. Well, that’s confirmation enough for her. Damnit.

But she would deal with him later. For now…she had more important things to do. Time to break into Heaven.

 

 

Her spell on the portal has remained strong and she finds it easily, slipping past the guards and entering Heaven undetectable.

And _oh_. Isn’t it glorious.

Just entering Heaven fills her with a sense of… _home_. Belonging. Peace.

But she can’t linger. She hasn’t the time.

So she begins searching around, looking for Metatron’s office.

* * *

 

After a while, she eventually finds it.

Within his office is the proverbial control panel for Heaven—all the puppet strings, the switches, the buttons, the settings.

It takes careful magic and spellwork to seize control from Metatron without it being detected. She sets up a front, so—as far as Metatron can tell—he still has the reins of this pony.

He would, too. If she hadn’t found the angel tablet too.

The power crackles under her skin, an electric current of energy in her blood, filling her withered Grace. And _oh_ , it’s more intoxicating than the strongest alcohol.

Because it’s not just Heaven’s power—it’s Heaven and Hell at her command, billions of souls at her fingertips.

But she grounds herself, reminds herself of her plans, thinks of Aziraphale and all the others who had suffered and died because of the mess that was the fight for control of Heaven.

Then, she lays her trap.

But there’s time. And she can sense Castiel and Gadreel locked up in Heaven’s prison. Time to fix that so they can ‘save the day’, supposedly, while she works behind the curtains.

So she zaps in and listens to Gadreel’s spiel. “…I sat in this hole for thousands of years, thinking of nothing but redemption, of reclaiming my good name. I thought of nobody, no cause, other than my own.”

“You've been redeemed, my friend,” she hears Castiel reply from the neighboring cell.

Gadreel is not comforted. “The only thing that matters in the end is the mission—protecting those who would not and cannot protect themselves—the humans. None of us is bigger than that. And we will not let our fears, our _self-absorption_ prevent us from seeing it through,” he growls. “Not anymore.”

“No, no of course not,” Castiel replies, but confusion colors his tone.

The shamed angel turns and she can see the sigil carved in his chest. “Move to the other side of your cell, Castiel, and keep your head down,” he instructs.

“What are you doing?” the trench coat-wearing angel shouts in concern.

Hannah, their jailor, runs over to see the sigil and fumble with the keys, trying to unlock the door. “No!”

“…When they say my name, perhaps I won't just be the one who let the serpent in. Perhaps I will be known as one of the many…”

“Gadreel!” Castiel shouts.

“…who gave heaven a second chance,” he finishes and looks to Hannah, who has dropped the key. “Run, sister.”

She ducks away as Gadreel grabs a sharp piece of rock.

Crowley appears, snatches up the key, and throws open the door to his cell as he raises the rock—

She knocks it from his hand before he can jam it into his chest, preventing his suicide.

“No, Gadreel,” she tells him quietly.

“You—what?” he shouts.

Hannah runs over, shocked. “How—?”

She glances between them calmly. “Do you believe him now? He and Castiel are truthful in this—Metatron manufactured that plan to deceive you all and turn you on Castiel.”

The angel nods. “I believe them, yes. Who are you?”

“Crowley, Queen of Hell, Fallen angel, and opponent of Metatron, pleased to make your acquaintance,” she replies simply and turns back to Gadreel, who glares.

“Gadreel, this is not how your story should end, my friend,” she murmurs gently. “You made one mistake—one mistake that I fooled you into making. And you have spent all your time since searching for a way to make it right. You, of all the angels, are in the very small minority that remembers our true mission—that is no small feat. You can do so much more alive than dead.”

He slowly nods. “Alright.”

“Good,” the fallen angel smiles thinly. “Now, shall we free Cas and go capture Metatron?”

* * *

 

They hurry to his office.

“We need to find the tablet,” Castiel announces quickly.

Crowley points. “It’s under his typewriter, there on his desk. Hannah, Gadreel—find others nearby, they’ll want to hear Metatron’s inevitable monologue and to help capture him. _Hurry!_ ”

They rush out. She winces as Castiel smashes the tablet, just a bit, feeling that power vanish. But it’s necessary.

Quickly, sensing his approach, she hides herself, withdrawn in the corner, watching carefully, silently. Undetectably.

Cas sits down in the chair and hits a button, but then there is another in the office.

“Well played, Castiel,” Metatron growls as he appears in his office. “Obviously you and Gadreel managed to turn a few dead-enders against me… Hm. And the angel tablet—arguably the most _powerful_ instrument in the history of the universe in pieces—and for what again?”

 _Because you’re a douchebag and no douchebag should have that kind of power_ , she remembers Dean saying once and she can’t help but smirk at the thought.

“Oh, that’s right,” he continues snidely. “To save Dean Winchester. That was your goal, right? I mean—you draped yourself in the flag of Heaven but…ultimately, it was all about saving one human, right?”

Castiel glances away, knowing the Scribe is correct.

“Well guess what. He’s dead, too.”

Crowley herself recoils in shock, and she can see the moment poor Castiel’s heart breaks.

“And you’re sitting in my chair,” Metatron growls, and Castiel is suddenly restrained there.

The angel is nearly trembling with fury and grief. “You will _never_ get away with this,” Castiel spits, and his tone makes Crowley stumble a few steps back.

“Get away with what?” Metatron sneers. “You told a silly story to a group of less than believers—I’ll clean up your mess in an hour.”

He shakes his head. “You give our brothers and sisters far too little credit. They will soon learn that you have been _playing_ them.”

The Scribe laughs. “And then? They will do _nothing_ —because they are frightened little sheep, following my crook wherever it leads! And where I’m taking them—back to our rightful place atop this mountain of human shame and excrement—and when that happens—trust me, they’re not going to _care_ how they got there. You know why you could never quite pull it together, Castiel?” he asks. “Why you’re sitting here with your Grace slowly burning away, and your reputation _long_ extinguished? No curiosity. You didn’t read enough,” he sneers, lifting up his angel blade, still stained with the human blood she knows to be Dean Winchester’s. “You never learned how to tell a good story.”

Castiel leans forwards, snarling, and tells him, “ _But you did_.”

He looks over to the microphone that he’d turned on and she relishes the look of horror on his face.

Two things happen at once.

Crowley reveals herself just as the door slams open and angels begin to rush it. She shoves them back, holding them at bay so she can confront Metatron.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” Castiel exclaims from the chair.

She ignores him—him and the angels crowding the door to confront the Scribe themselves—as she pulls out her angel blade.

“Hello, Metatron,” she greets coldly as she strides forward.

He has the gall to smile at her, pleased to see she's joined them. “Well, if it isn't the femme fatale of our tale! Crowley, it’s been a while.”

“Not nearly long enough,” she responds. “Trust me, I wish it had been _much_ longer.”

His smile—condescending, arrogant—remains. “You were always such a charmer, Crowley. Or is it Your Majesty? Oh it doesn't matter. What're titles, after all, between siblings?”

“I'd prefer Your Grace,” she snaps sharply.

He laughs coldly. “And witty too, aren't you? Unfortunately, you shan’t be taking my Grace.”

She shrugs elegantly with a dismissive flutter of her hand.

“What can I do for the Queen of Hell today?” Metatron asks casually.

Crowley chuckles. “Well, you see, Metatron, I’m not here today as Queen of Hell. I'm here as an angel.”

“A _fallen_ angel,” he corrects smugly with a guffaw.

This time she doesn't suppress the eye roll.

She straightens and draws in a breath. There's only the soft whisper of feathers before she hears air being drawn in collectively by the others watching. Her wings, resplendent and shining ebony in the light, appear effortlessly.

Standing before them in a dark blue backless dress with her wings on display, she is a sight to behold.

“Your spell didn’t affect everyone, Metatron. I couldn't be removed or cut off from Heaven, nor forced to fall. Nor am I hindered like the others.”

“So the birdie's got wings after all,” the angel shrugs. “Okay. Sorry, what’s the relevance to the plot?”

She smiles. It's a cold, fierce smile and she's calm.

It's the calm before a storm.

“Your influence and pull over the other angels—it was that you offered them a way home. Well, my home hasn’t been upstairs in years. I'm already home here on earth.”

He chuckles. “Ah yes. Your home on earth… Tell me, how’s your home all by your lonesome self, my dear?”

Crowley stills. “I beg your pardon.”

“You know. It’s just you now. No more Aziraphale for companionship and conversation—oh, and company in bed, of course.”

"What—what would you know of Aziraphale?"

He laughs. "Quite a bit. You know, Michael shoved him in Heaven's dungeons just before he got shoved in the cage. He Fell with all the others. He even found me—his old friend, he called me. He was trying to learn what happened before he made his way back to find you, his precious Crowley. So I'd say I know plenty about him. Especially since I killed him."

It takes all of her not-inconsiderable strength and will to keep her knees from giving out. “ _What?_ ” She gasps.

_Dead. I was right. He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead. He’s gone. Gonedeadgonedeaddead. Dead. Killed. Murdered. Dead._

And there was nothing she could do. One could not resurrect an angel—not even with all of Heaven and Hell’s powers in her hands. She is not able. She can’t fix this, can’t save him.

The tiny spark of hope that is left in her dies, sizzling out like a spark.

"Oh, come on, _Crowley_ ," he snaps. "Pull yourself together. He was just a stupid little angel. What was he to you, really?"

She snarls at him, teeth bared furiously. "He was _everything_ to me!" she screams, spittle flying.

"Ah. Interesting," Metatron comments calmly. "I had wondered if you actually loved him. I mean, I thought you were manipulating him but…you _actually cared for him?_ Well, I overestimated you, Crowley. You're just as much of a heartsick fool as he was. How pathetic."

With a wordless snarl, she sent him flying back against the bookcase.

“Crowley, _stop!_ ” Castiel shouted from the chair. “There’s been enough death—stop! Don’t kill him!”

He and the other angels struggle against her, trying to move and stop her, but with Heaven and Hell’s powers in her hands, it’s pointless.

“If you kill him, you’re no better than him, Crowley! Enough death!”

Ignoring Castiel, she observes Metatron, pinned in place as surely as a butterfly on display. “You think you know me. It’s funny because I know _you_ , Metatron. You forget that. I know you, _Scribe_. The little nobody-angel that got picked to play secretary. You always loved stories _so_ much…

“That's your problem, you know. You love the stories and books, you watch humanity and claim to understand them but…you only watch and read. That’s it. You only see the stories.

“And if there's one thing I've learned in the last six thousand years…I've learned what humanity really is—what makes them so beloved to our Father, why He tasked us with looking out for _them_. And you know what, they _are_ better than us and we could all learn a lot from them. Even _you_ , Metatron.

“Because—ask any human out there. Life isn't a book, it isn't divided into neat little chapters and the characters won't always be simple stock characters and you can't tie up every loose end. This isn't a book. _Life_ isn't a book. You can't treat it as one. That's your mistake. Because at the end of the day, you can't take a person, an angel, a devil— _whatever_ —and explain every detail of them in ink on a page.

“To you, I'm the Femme Fatale, the Fallen Angel turned Queen of Hell—but you know what? That's not all I am. An old friend told me that—because for a long time, I believed that’s all I was and so that’s what I became. But…not anymore,” she smiles sadly, thinking of that conversation with Bobby so long ago. “That’s not all I am. I happen to be in love with an angel and you know what? He and I—we learned something together about life.

“Humans…they taught us free will. And free will lets you take the book and rip up the ending, lets you write your own.

"But if you still want to look at it like a story, well, okay. Here’s where your chapter ends.”

“ _CROWLEY, NO!_ ” Castiel is shouting. “It won’t bring Aziraphale or Dean back, it won’t change anything!”

She lunges forward anyways, and Metatron brings his blade up to block her. But with a snarl, she bats it away, sending it skidding across the floor and drops her own too. Instead, she begins punching him, pummeling him, kicking him, and beating him.

When she finally stops, he’s bloody and beaten but still alive. To her regret.

Crowley turns to the angels in the doorway calmly. “You can take him to Heaven’s jail now,” she announces and releases them and Castiel.

They grab him and set about doing that, but the demon looks to the microphone and pauses, thinking for a moment before snatching it up.

“Hello, angel radio,” she says calmly. “This is Crowley speaking. Yes, Crowley the Queen of Hell and Fallen Angel, yes, that one. I’m here to inform you that, as I speak, Metatron is being taken to Heaven’s prison. At the moment, _I_ have control of Heaven.”

She pauses. “Don’t get all worried. I’m opening the pearly gates,” the demon mutters and snaps her fingers. With a jolt of power, Heaven opens, to souls and angels once more. “As that is now settled, I’m going to give you a few choices. So listen up, folks.

“Here’s how it is. Ever since Michael and Lucifer tried to start the apocalypse and failed, Heaven has been in chaos—and it’s high time that’s ended. There were once _thousands_ of us. _Thousands of angels_. Now look around you—we’re down to a few hundred. We can’t afford to lose any more of our own thanks to moronic civil wars. I mean, really—we’re brothers and sisters. And we have forgotten our mission, assigned to us by our Father—protect and help humanity. Not try to start the apocalypse. Not fight for dominance in Heaven. Not fight to amass souls and strength. Not to degrade and hate humans. Not to look down upon the rest of Creation. Gadreel and Castiel reminded me of that.

“So this is what’s going to happen now. The angel-on-angel violence is stopping. _Now_. Anyone who wishes to return to Heaven, full Grace and wings included, will take an oath to uphold our true duties, no more fighting each other. If some wish to remain on earth as humans and live out their lives there…they can choose to do so, with no punishment or dishonor. And if some of you can’t comply to these new rules— _the mission our Father gave us_ —then they will be stripped once more of their wings and Grace and will be sent to earth with no memories of angelic life.

“That’s how it’s going to be. Goodnight, folks.”

She sets aside the microphone aside and follows the other angels to Metatron’s cell.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Hannah says to a grim-faced Castiel, as Gadreel hovers behind. “Letting him live. It’s what a real leader would do.”

He turns to her. “I’m not a leader, Hannah. I never was. I just wanna be an angel.”

There’s a certain tiredness in his voice, in his face, in his bearing. She knows it well—has known it intimately, personally, for years. The utter bone-deep exhaustion that no sleep, no nourishment, no medicine can fix. It makes you tired of everything—of doing anything, even favored activities, of sleeping, of misery, of living. She knows that fatigue too well.

“And your Grace? What will you do about that? You _will_ die if you don’t replenish it.”

Crowley comes up from behind them, coughing lightly to get their attention. The three of them glance up in surprise “I’ve released control of Heaven to the three of you.”

“What do you want from this, Crowley?” Hannah asks quietly.

The demon laughs hollowly. “Nothing. I’ve gotten everything I needed. Metatron is imprisoned, Heaven’s in order now. I have other things to finish before…” she pauses, clearing her throat. “And I—I’ve finally learned of Zi—Aziraphale’s fate. There’s nothing left for me here that Heaven could offer. There’s nothing for me here. It’s yours.”

Gadreel steps forward and studies her for a long moment. “Sister, I forgive you.”

She smiles slightly and presses a kiss to his brow. “And I, you, brother. You have more than made up for the mistake that was never your fault, only mine.”

“Aziraphale was in the cell next to mine, briefly,” he adds quietly. “He spoke of you, though I never made the connection between the Crowley he spoke of and you. He loved you, wholly and truly. With all that he was. I think…I think he would be proud of you today.”

She trembles at his words but forces her composure to hold.  With a nod of thanks to him, she faces the other two.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Castiel says quietly, sincerely, but his voice softens more. “But…did Metatron truly…is Dean…”

She bites her lip until she tastes blood. “As far as I am aware, yes. He killed Dean. I’m…I’m sorry, Castiel.” The angel’s eyes close and she can see the grief weighing down his shoulders. Slowly, she steps forward and embraces the strange, trench coat-wearing angel. “I’m so sorry, I know how it feels,” Crowley tells him and lingers.

“I’m going to fix this,” she decides, a promise, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek in farewell before vanishing once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.
> 
> But now you know Aziraphale's fate, at long last. 
> 
> The story's not over yet, we've got a couple more chapters.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “These woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
> But I have promises to keep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep,  
> And miles to go before I sleep.”   
> – Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content. Sexual manipulation. Depression. Suicidal Thoughts, Intentions, and Actions.

Crowley finds her way into the bunker, slipping unseen into Dean’s room, where she finds his body laid upon the bed. The scent of strong liquor—whiskey, possibly—drifts from the hall and she grimaces at the thought of Sam’s present state.

For now, she calms herself, returns her usual cold mask in place, and prepares for some good old fashion manipulation.

The demon steadies herself and perches on the side of the bed, against his hip and leans down to speak into his ear.

“Your brother, bless his soul, is summoning me as I speak. Make a deal, bring you back—it’s exactly what I was talking about, isn’t it? It’s all become so…expected,” she sighs.

And really, it has. One dies, the other finds some loophole to exploit and pays hell to bring them back but they do, and then they reunite and are insanely co-dependent until one sacrifices himself and restarts the whole process.

“You have to believe me: when I suggested you take on the Mark of Cain, I had no idea this would happen. Not really,” she adds softly. “I mean, I might not have told you the _entire_ truth, but I never lied. I never lied, Dean. It’s important—it’s _fundamental_ ,” she breathes, voice demanding his attention and obedience, but alluringly affectionate.

It’s the intimate voice of a lover.

“But…there is one story about Cain I might have… _forgot_ to tell you. Apparently he, too, was willing to accept death rather than become the killer the Blade wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the Blade. He died. Except…as rumor has it…the Mark never quite let go.

“You can understand why I never mentioned this. My heart’s aflutter at the mere speculation…” she murmurs, breath warming his cheek. “It wasn’t until you summoned me… _no_ , it wasn’t truly until you left the cheeseburger uneaten…that I began to let myself believe…maybe miracles _do_ happen,” the Temptress purrs, carding a hand through his hair, stroking his head—like taming a wild beast, luring prey, seducing a lover.

“ _Listen_ to me, Dean Winchester,” she whispers, sweetly. “What you’re feeling right now—it’s not death. It’s _life_ ,” Crowley breathes excitedly. “A new kind of life.”

With gentle hands she lays the First Blade upon his chest, wrapping his hands around it easily. She studies his still face for a moment before leaning down to press her lips to his. “Open your eyes, Dean” the Queen of Hell whispers into the kiss. “See what I see, feel what I feel. Let’s go take a howl at that moon.”

She pulls back in time to see his eyes open—black.

Crowley smiles.

“Hello, Dean,” she purrs with a smirk, still leaning over him.

“Crowley,” he rasps sharply in recognition, something feral there too.

She chuckles darkly with a nod. “I saved you, Dean,” she informs him quietly, lips inches from his. “Ready to help serve your Queen?”

There is a savage, dark smirk in response. She laughs aloud in surprised delight.

Dean surges forward to attack her mouth, arms pulling her down against him; Crowley moans as their tongues clash, bodies tangling quickly.

She had not known what to expect from a demonic Dean Winchester, but she had worried about it for months, had tried to instil some sense of loyalty in him, had worked to manipulate him in every way she could—being ‘family’, being a sympathetic ear, being a kind shoulder to fight his self-loathing, being the partial cause and release of some serious pent-up sexual tension. It seems that she has been successful, Crowley thinks as his hands nearly rip her blouse as they find her breasts.

From personal experience, she knows that Dean was a passionate, skilled lover, usually surprisingly gentle and slow; now, that passion has turned to wild hunger, raw lust, and feral roughness. That wasn’t acceptable—she had to maintain the sense of authority and loyalty—had to make sure the hellhound knew its master.

She snatches his hands and presses them above his head. “Ah, ah, ah,” she hisses into his neck. “Remember who’s in charge and let Mummy take care of you.”

Slowly, she slithers down to unbutton his jeans and shove them down so she can swallow him down to the root, pressing deep into her throat. Thank _somebody_ that demons didn’t need to breathe, she thinks as he groans, hips bucking under her ministrations.

Eventually, before his release, she pulls off him and removes her clothes with a twitch of her hand as she climbs atop him.

“Alright, my boy. Show me whatcha got,” she growls and he flips her over on to her back, pressing her into the mattress forcefully. With an animalistic grunt, he shoves inside her, down into the depths of her wet heat until he meets her cervix, startling a moan from her. He doesn’t speak as they fuck, merely growls as he pounds into her and snarls when she squeezes tightly around him.

Her nail rake down his back and his fingers curl into her supple flesh and leave purple bruises everywhere—which is a bit painful, yes, but on the pleasurable side of it rather than the unpleasant. It’s quite possibly the roughest she’s ever had it, but it’s not bad. It serves its purpose so she doesn’t mind the harsh, nearly violent treatment.

Sometime after they finish, she chuckles as she sits up from the bed to observe the demonic Winchester. “Well, since we’ve slaked one thirst, why don’t we work on the second, hmm?”

* * *

 

The Queen of Hell returns to the bunker a couple hours later. While put together, she’s harried and hasn’t really taken the time to really hide the evidence of their earlier tryst—her hair’s distinctly post-coital, her neck is covered in hickeys, her lips bruised.

“Dean’s dead and you’re fuckin’ getting laid?!”

She turns at the drunken slur. “And you were getting wasted,” she snaps. “Really, Sam?”

The hunter is slouched in an armchair, a nearly-empty bottle of scotch clutched to his chest, face wretched with tears and grief. Beside him, Castiel hovers apprehensively, appearing as if he’d been trying to pry the alcohol away from Sam. He, too, is utterly destroyed.

“Fuck you, Crowley,” Sam half-shouts.

She nearly gags at the overwhelming stench of liquor on him. “I am _not_ going to deal with you _drunk_ , Samuel,” she snarls and evaporates the alcohol from his system with a sharp snap of her fingers. “I don’t have _time_ for bullshit right now.”

Both glare. “What do you want, Crowley?” Castiel eventually asks in defeat.

“First, I need Bobby and Kevin to get there arses out here _now!_ ” she yells down a hallway and the two come running, both having been crying. The kid is the worst, face red and eyes swollen, but Bobby is furious at the sight of her.

Crowley doesn’t give them the chance to speak. “Listen up, I’ve got much time. Dean isn’t dead. The Mark of Cain wouldn’t let him die, so it made him a demon. I didn’t know it would happen, before you ask. Just be glad I caught him before he went on a blind, bloodthirsty rampage.”

“Wait— _what?_ ”

The interruption is ignored. “He’s loyal to me, at the moment. Recognizes me as the alpha, the Queen—whatever. He’s presently in Hell, torturing and killing some of Abaddon’s loyalists that I’d captured. He’s fine there for now. He’s totally animalistic, wild, feral right now—driven by instinct. He isn’t the Dean you know and love anymore. He’s dangerous and he could kill you all. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me,” she mutters, rubbing her neck.

Sam’s face twists in disgusted realization “You didn’t—”

“Oh please,” she sneers. “Of course I did. I had to. It helped curb that sexual frustration of his and strengthened his bond to me. He’s listening to me, obeys me, _trusts_ me. I need him to keep doing that.”

“For how long?” Bobby asks, furious but restrained.

Her glare is flat. “As long as it takes until I can fix him and return him to humanity.”

A wary, mistrustful silence fills the bunker as they eye her carefully.

“You can do that?” Kevin speaks up.

She sighs. “I can try. The Mark…isn’t going to let it happen easily. But I think I can suppress its power when the time comes. I know a few spells and sigils that should work…not to mention my own…unique talents. It’ll work. For now, all you can do is wait and wish me luck. I’ll be in contact,” Crowley adds and returns to Hell quickly.

* * *

 

She appears in Bobby’s room in the bunker one evening a week later, making him jump. “Crowley, what in the hell are you doin’ here?!” he exclaims. The demon turns to him and his shock turns to concern.

“You okay?” he asks. Her face in unnaturally, worryingly pale, with dark shadows under her tired eyes. Lines crease her face in exhaustion and pain.

The Queen waves a hand in dismissal, but it only serves to make him notice how thin she’s become, her wrists tiny and fragile looking, fingers long and bony. “Fine, don’t…it doesn’t matter.” She wobbles visibly, and catches herself on a shelf carefully to steady herself. If anything, her face pales even more for a moment. “Bobby, I…I need your help, and a vow of secrecy.”

“What d’ya need?” he asks, guiding her to a chair, which she sinks into tiredly. “Somethin’ to do with Dean?”

Crowley hesitates, but eventually murmurs, “I need some of your blood—not a lethal amount, I promise.”

“I…sure. What for? A spell, I’m assuming?” he asks. “How much? You need it tonight?”

She nods slowly. “A spell, yes. I need enough for eight injections, as soon as possible.”

“Alright, no time like the present,” he nods.

As he begins rolling up a sleeve, she puts a hand on his arm, halting his progress. “First…I need you to go to confession.”

He stares, eyes wide in realization. “Let me guess…you’re not _just_ doing this to cure Dean.”

The demon fidgets. “I…no. This is the Third Trial.”

The blood drains out of his face when he makes the connection. “You’re—Crowley, _you’ll die_.”

“Yes,” she admits in a whisper. “I know. It’s time, Bobby. I’m tired, so tired of this joyless life. Metatron has been taken care of. Heaven will be getting back on its feet. Hell’s…well, it’s Hell. I can cure Dean and…and I want to end it. I’m so tired.”

He stares and lays a hand on her shoulder. “Death ain’t the only way to get some rest. There’re other options, girl. Like Prozac.”

“Bobby, I’ve lived for more than six _thousand_ years—that’s earth years, not counting the centuries at a time in Hell. And they’ve been filled with misery and pain and regret. I’m tired of it—tired in a way that no sleep will _ever_ fix. If I can cure Dean and seal Hell with my death…I’m going to do it. I’ve fucked so much up—from the damned garden of Eden to opening Purgatory to allowing all this shit to happen with the angels. Even the best thing, the best part of my life— _Zira_ —even that I fucked up. There’s nothing left for me here. I just want to end it.”

“Crowley, I can’t…”

“Bobby,” she interrupts. “ _Please_. I came to you because I thought you’d understand. I trust you. I know I’ve not done much to help you in the past— _hell_ , I’ve screwed you over so many times…I know I’m forever in your debt, but I must ask one more favor of you. Please. Let me redeem myself somewhat and go peacefully.”

Slowly, the hunter nods. “Alright. Let’s find the nearest abandoned church. C’mon.”

* * *

 

Once there, she leaves him to confession in private until he calls her back so she can begin taking the blood.

They don’t say much during the process until the blood is collected and Bobby looks to her. “Is it just the Trials that’ve got you so…” He trails off, unsure how to phrase it.

She chuckles softly. “Weak? Pathetic? Human?” the Queen of Hell shakes her head. “No, I…well, I completed the first two trials very quickly, which wasn’t very smart, but also…to cure a demon requires one to feed the demon fresh blood from the caster. And I wasn’t sure if a full demon or Fallen angel would suffice…”

The hunter falls completely still. “Crowley…you didn’t…”

“I had to,” she whispers in response. “I stole from a blood bank and injected it—not as good as fresh but…I’ve got plenty of human blood in me. Just enough as there was when I was an addict—remember that? At the height of it, I could walk out of a devil’s trap. I’m able now, too. That’s…that’s why I nearly fainted when I appeared in the bunker. Not much demonic energy.”

He stares in utter disbelief. “Crowley, you damn idgit. Seriously, girl—you’re going to kill yourself before you even complete the Trial!”

Crowley shrugs dismissively. “If I do…then I will have done my best. And one of you lot can catch Dean and humanize him. Doesn’t have to be a part of the Third Trial, you know. Just…keep that Blade away from him. It’s gone for now, but he’ll call it back soon enough.” She grins. “Told him I was gonna keep it safe, away from other demons who might try to kill him for the Mark and Blade.”

“Where is it now?”

A grin as smug as ever twisted her mouth. “Presently…somewhere in the center of Jupiter. But when he wants it back and starts calling it…the Blade won’t take long to return to its master. Maybe a couple days at most. If I fail and die—don’t look at me like that, it’s possible—if that happens, catch him as soon as you can and attempt to cure him as soon as possible. He’ll still be weak because of me and you’ll have a better chance of it.”

For a moment, the hunter stares at her, face unreadable, before pulling her into a hug. Crowley is stiff in his arms for a moment, before relaxing and returning the embrace. He can feel her trembling, feel the unhealthy thinness of her body, feel how she ducks to hide her face in his shoulder. Saying nothing, he merely continues to hold her and offer whatever comfort he can.

Eventually, she pulls away and gives a grateful nod to—yes, to her friend.

“D’you…do you want some company or would you rather be alone?”

She smiles slightly. “Alone, but thank you. Were I to ask for company, I wouldn’t have any other…but this I must do alone. I trust you will keep this to yourself until…until it’s done? And that you won’t try to stop me?”

“I…Alright,” he agrees.

She nods, grateful, and pauses to sit down on the edge of the bed as she reaches into her inside coat pocket.

“A last gift.”

The old hunter accepts the book curiously.

“Uh. Thanks, Crowley, but…Milton?” he surveys the book curiously.

The fallen angel chuckles dryly. “ _Paradise Lost_ , the grand Christian epic about Satan’s rebellion—and, of course, Adam and Eve’s fall.”

“Let me guess—he got it all wrong.”

She nods. “Oh of course he did, everyone does. Putting aside the fact that he thought it was Lucifer in the Garden, he was…well. Closer to reality than usual. Forget details. I was re-reading it a bit ago, got me thinking.

“You know—back then, 1600s, everyone thought damnation or salvation was predetermined—easier to think people didn’t have the responsibility of their fates, you know. Milton…he didn’t think so. He proposed a radically different theory.

“One…well. At the time, I scoffed at it.”

Bobby chuckles. “Course you did.”

“He thought that everyone had free will. Everyone, everything. Humans, angels, everyone. Even Lucifer and his fallen angels. He thought that we were given duties, yes, but…we had a choice. Lucifer made his choice to fall. I made my choice to fall. Michael made his choices to pursue the apocalypse—an ending that was suggested, not definite.

“Like the tree of knowledge of good and evil…not what He wanted nor said it was. In the end, it was all a test. To see our choices and allow us to exercise our free will.”

She falls silent, staring at the book cover—a painting of a serpent.

“And?” Bobby prompts gently. “What do you think?”

“I think…I thought we had no choice, not really. I thought we angels were made to carry out His will. And…eventually, I thought that I was deciding to have a choice. Saying ‘fuck you’ to fate and destiny. I’d make my choices, I’d decide my fate.”

“And now?”

The fallen angel is utterly silent, staring at the wall for several minutes. Eventually, she sighs. “And now…I’m not so sure anymore. I’m beginning to think that Milton was right. That there’s always been choice. I’ve always had free will, always been able to choose. And…it’s only by using that free will do angels truly gain grace. It’s why Castiel is God’s favorite child—because he has embraced choice so entirely, he has been granted grace.”

The hunter hums. “You too, Crowles.”

“Perhaps.”

Neither speak for a long moment, until Crowley draws in a deep, fortifying breath as she stands and embraces the old hunter carefully. “I wish you a long, peaceful life, Bobby Singer. God knows you deserve it. Keep an eye on those boys of yours, keep them out of trouble…I think it’ll be a lot easier soon.”

When she releases him, he pauses. “When…it’s over, I’m going to bring the boys and we’ll get Dean and give you a proper hunter’s funeral, got it? I won’t allow anything else.”

“I couldn’t ask for more,” Crowley replies, throat tight.

He shrugs. “Least we can do. You know, I just…I wish it didn’t have to end like this.”

Biting her lip, she nods. “I know, and I’m sorry. This…this is the only way my story could ever end. Immortal I may be, but I never expected to live this long. And going out like this…I couldn’t ask for more.”

“I…I’m sorry, Crowley. You deserve a lot more than this.”

“But…this is enough for me.” She smiles and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, my friend.”

Bobby nods and leaves.

The demon sighs and prepares to summon Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you can't tell, I'm a huge fan of Paradise Lost and I thought Crowley would find it interesting, incorrect as it may be to her.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-Specific Warnings: Suicidal Thoughts, Actions, and Intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “All stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you” – Ernest Hemingway

When Dean blinks in, it’s with his back to Crowley, which is to her advantage.

The demon-killing knife slides cleanly between his ribs into his chest, where his heart is. It sends him to the floor with a shout of pain. She tackles him, flattening him, and works quickly to carve a complicated sigil into his chest.

“ _CROWLEY!_ ” he screeches.

She ignores him, placing a hand on his forehead. “ _Sleep_ ,” she orders and, with a burst of her power, he does. Distracted by the knife and weakened by the sigil, he’s just weak enough for her to overcome and force into unconsciousness.

And for her to quickly gag. Demonic Dean has a mouth on him; one she doesn’t want to listen to for eight hours…or for him to possibly bite her like she bit Sam.

Quickly, before he gets the chance to wake, she shoves him into the chair, chains him in, then completes the devil’s trap. Really it’s like a flashback to some months ago, just reversed a bit.

Putting a careful foot inside the devil’s trap, she grins when she confirms that there’s enough human blood in her for it to be ineffective.

Time to get started.

* * *

 

As the hours pass and she administers the injections to Dean, who she keeps unconscious, she spends the interim time writing. It’s nothing much and she’s no Dickens, but some business can be settled in this time.

It is not enough, not really, far less than they deserve, but…it’s all she can do for now. Their stories will go on, and now happy endings seem to be within reach for them.

This is enough of a happy ending for Crowley—more than she ever hoped for or dreamed. Heroes and their friends get happy endings. Victims, martyrs, and antiheroes like Crowley…not so much. That’s okay. She accepted that when she chose her role long ago.

After all, she chose it. And that’s more than enough.

* * *

Bobby counts down the hours to himself as he returns to the bunker. The hunter resists every urge to drink. Instead, he sits in the main room, trying to read something about vamps, but he can’t focus, watching the clock as time slides by.

He doesn’t know how to feel about Crowley’s impending suicide.

Of all the people and creatures…he never thought he’d ever be fond of a demon. Much less that one, who had owned his soul. Who had given it back for a laugh. Who had healed his legs. Who brought him back to life. Who brought Kevin back to life. Who had saved him and the boys more times than he can count.

And damn it, he’d miss Crowley. All of them would, in their own ways.

He wants to call the boys into the room now, tell them so they can go to the church and stop her. But he gave his word.

If nothing else, he owes her this much.

* * *

 

The Third Trial goes similar to the first time she experienced it. A bit less physical pain, admittedly, but she’s just as haunted by regrets and fears and, most painfully, thoughts of Zira.

Her dark wings are out, wrapped around herself as if seeking comfort.

Memories echo back to her from another time. Her own voice pleading, “ _I just want to be loved…_ ” She has been loved. She has known love in her life. Sometimes, she forgets that. Sometimes, she avoids remembering because remembering the joy hurt too much. It doesn’t matter. She remembers now—remembers the pain and the joy, remembers the loss and the love.

She allows herself, finally, to wallow in her memories of him. To remember how he held her at night. How it felt when he told her that he loved her. Bothering him at the bookshop and scaring away customers. How it felt to just spend days on end with him. Fighting the apocalypse with him, facing down Heaven and Hell by his side with naught but a crowbar in her hands. How he’d stutter when he was drunk. The warmth of his hands as he embraces and held her. Watching classic films with him and explaining the references and idioms. Kissing him. Eating at the Ritz with him. Waking after he’d rescued her from Hell and the overwhelming flood of relief and love she felt when she realized he was real and she was home. How he smelled of earl grey tea, old books, and lemon. How he’d smile at her, like she was the light of his life and the center of his universe.

How she loved him. How he loved her.

Abruptly, Crowley realizes, that she does not know what will happen to her when she dies. Humans, they go to Heaven or Hell. Monsters to Purgatory. What happened to angels? Did they cease to exist entirely, Grace scattered throughout all of Creation. What of her consciousness?

She doesn’t really care. As long as she ends up with her angel. Whether that means in Heaven with him…or into oblivion so she isn’t aware of his absence.

As she picks up the final syringe, her hand trembles. Crowley can’t determine if she’s afraid or relieved. Perhaps a mixture of both. This is her penance and her redemption, as well as her end. Suiting, for one of the Fallen.

Dean is now awake, watching her carefully. She can see the humanity returning to him, see it flashing in his eyes. Good. Even now, feeling so little of her strength left in her, she knows that she will be successful. That is enough.

She removes her mobile from her pocket and hits speed-dial number two.

Bobby picks up after one ring.

“Crowley?” he asks, concern lacing every syllable.

She smiles sadly. “Hello, darling. I’m about to give him the last injection and finish the spell. You can head over now.”

The hunter is very quiet before sighing. “Dammit, you idgit,” he breaths heavily, the voice of one whose throat is thick from tears and emotion.

“I feel the love,” she replies, but there’s no bite to it. “I’m sorry, Bobby. But thank you, my friend.”

He pauses. “Damn it, Crowley—there has to be a different way to end this. To cure Dean apart from the Trials. You’d survive it. Everything would be fine, just—”

“Bobby,” the fallen angel interrupts kindly. “I’ve been dead for years inside. I’m not living anymore, I’m just…existing, just taking up space. This is my choice. I’m closing Hell for good. Souls will still be able to enter, but all demons will forever be locked inside. As well as Lucifer and Michael. And I will be…well. Who knows what happens to fallen angels when they die. I’d rather drift in oblivion than continue this charade of a life, Bobby. I’m sorry…but this is my choice…”

And isn’t that wonderful? Humans, throughout the years, had shown her time and time again free will, and how…she finally, _finally_ using it. This is her choice. _Her_ _choice_ , and that realization, that thought is so wonderful, so powerful, that tears prickle the corners of her eyes. “It’s my choice.”

“Alright,” the hunter agrees. “And…Crowley? Thanks. For everything. And—you know what? For bein’ the Queen of Hell, you’re not so much of a bitch as I thought. You’re a good friend.”

The demon works her jaw for a moment, stunned to silence and unsure of how to respond. “Goodbye, Bobby,” is what she eventually settles on before hanging up tucking the phone back into her pocket.

Carefully, Crowley injects the last of the blood gently into Dean’s neck.

She tosses the empty syringe aside and grabs the knife. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, hanc animam redintegra, lustra_ ,” she recites, and slices open her palm.

The orange glow appears under her skin, and she feels the power dancing in her flesh as it begins to fill her.

She removes the gag over Dean’s mouth. “I’m sorry, Dean, for what it’s worth. And thank you. Give the rest of Team Free Will my best,” she tells him and presses her bleeding hand to his mouth.

For a moment, she meets his eyes and is surprised to find gratitude and sympathy there. He simply nods to her and she smiles slightly in response.

As Crowley collapses to the floor, she is surrounded by soft white feathers before her vision goes dark.

* * *

 

After hanging up on the phone, he wanders out of his room into the living room and finds Kevin, Sam, and Castiel there as well.

They don’t notice him at first, as he ghosts over to a chair and sits, pressing a fist over his mouth to help keep his breathing steady.

He doesn’t know what to do or say. Crowley is…she’s dying _right now_. To cure Dean, to undo her mistakes, to repent. To finally end herself. Despite her explanation of her past, they don’t know much about her, really, but…Bobby knows she’s been through a lot. She is—was—a consummate survivor, throughout more than six millennia—always moving on, always living, always adapting, always managing to slip through Death’s clutches.

Despite all she’s survived and all the times she’s evaded death…it finally comes at her own hands, he realizes, and the thought is nearly enough to make the tears begin.

“Bobby? Hey—Bobby? What’s wrong?”

Sam’s voice brings him from his pondering, and he realizes he’s biting his knuckle to keep from crying.

All three of them are now watching him in varying combinations of concern, confusion, and worry.

“Crowley,” he chokes out. “The—the idgit is doing the Trials to get rid of demons. She’s curing Dean right now. And she’s dying. She’s _dying_ right now.”

* * *

 

He’s wrong.

She’s dead right now.

* * *

 

She drifts.

Eventually, she doesn’t and it feels something like waking up.

Crowley finds herself sitting at a booth at an empty restaurant. As she sits forward and her eyes focus, she notices she isn’t alone.

“Death,” she greets softly. She isn’t surprised. Not really.

“Hello, Sariel,” the Horseman nods slightly, sitting on the opposite side of the booth. “Help yourself to some cheesecake and wine.”

He is content to enjoy the dessert, so she does as requested and takes a bit of the cheesecake. It’s delicious, of course—Death is a very particular not-person with a very particular palate. He has excellent taste, as she has known and respected for years.

But she hesitates to try the wine. He sees.

“Once wine was your favorite beverage,” he observes curiously. “Now I believe it to be Glenncraig whisky. Why the change?”

 _Can’t a girl change her mind?_ She nearly replies but there is no reason to have secrets anymore. “Too many memories,” she replies softly. “It makes me think of Aziraphale. Whisky, on the other hand, he didn’t care a bit for—it’s safe to drink without inducing bouts of nostalgia or depression. It helps—helped—me forget.”

Death hums. “Well, indulge me, please,” he replies and motions to the glass of sparkling white wine.

Reluctantly, she takes a sip and hums in approval at the creamy, sweet taste of the dessert wine. “Lovely. What is it exactly?”

“Schramsberg Crémant Demi-Sec,” he explains easily. “2007. Not very old, but it combines nicely with the cheesecake.”

She nods in agreement as she takes another sip.

“So is there a particular reason why Death himself is my reaper?” she eventually asks. “And why you took me out for dessert?”

“As I’ve told you before, Sariel, you are special,” he replies quietly. “I make a point to reap special ones myself, and to indulge in some conversation occasionally.”

“I’m flattered, then.”

“I also have a message for you.”

Her fork pauses mid-air. “Oh?”

“As I explained to your friend Dean Winchester some time ago, God and I talk often. Even now. Despite that he is supposedly in hiding, we still meet up occasionally to discuss recent events. We speak of you and Aziraphale fairly often.”

She nods and swallows down the lump in her throat. “So you related before.”

“Yes, but you did not believe me. Now, I do not repeat myself often, so you would do well to listen to me now. I told you that your Father and I are fond of you both. That was a slight understatement. Of all the beings we have observed, you are two of our favorites in all our memory. Which is no small feat.

“You will listen to this, for I believe it is long past time that you believe it: you are extraordinary and you have always been so, as Sariel, as Crawly, as Crowley. Yes, you are quick to anger and vicious at times, but you are, underneath it all, quite good and loving. And your Father is immensely proud of all you have done, survived, and overcome. You aren’t perfect, but you were never meant to be. Nor anyone else.”

For a moment, she is stunned to silence, before her sarcasm comes to her defense. “Even Dad?” she laughs.

The Horseman chuckles and smiles ever so slightly. “Even God, yes. One thing humanity did get right: He created them, and the rest of creation, in his image: flawed. Or did it escape your notice that he’s been hiding for several thousand years hoping his children will get their acts together? Rather than step in and stop their fighting? Not the best decision, if you ask me,” he comments dryly. “I suppose in many ways, humanity has done better than the angels.”

She laughs. “That I can agree with,” she snipes, thinking of archangels fighting, fields of dead angels killed by their brothers and sisters, and the decimated ranks of the Heavenly Host. “Sometimes, I have to marvel at humans. Some times.”

“Do you ever envy them?”

“What?” she asks and he repeats himself, making her bite the inside of her cheek as she contemplates.

“I envy their free will. They have so many choices before them, it awes me. All the grace of angels, but the choice they never had. That’s enviable, I suppose.”

He hums. “Did you wish to be one of them?”

“At times, yes. Life is so long and tiring. I wish I could have simply lived out my life as one should, find love, chase dreams, find a home, and eventually die. It would be preferable to millennia of strife and misery and loss. Sometimes, I just wanted to die like them. But really…I just want that freedom, that choice. To choose.”

Death hums. “And yet, you have done exactly that, you know. Grace and choice have defined your life…or rather, you have defined your life by that. You have always known your weaknesses, known your voice, known that all the world has been against you—against your relationship with Aziraphale, against fighting the apocalypse, against settling Heaven. Your Grace may have been darkened and altered long ago, but…there is more than one meaning to the word. You are a graceful person, even still after realizing the power of choice. That is why God and I are so fond of you, Sariel. Why He brought you back.”

It makes her pause. “Why was I saved after Lucifer killed me? Me of all people?”

The Horseman’s eyebrows rise slowly. “Sariel, you are the Queen of Hell. Despite your title, you have assisted in defeating the apocalypse thrice, participated in returning the Leviathans to Purgatory, and have singlehandedly locked all demons in Hell permanently. Do those sound like the actions of a villain?”

She laughs darkly. “You forget my bloody history of murder, seduction, temptation, and various other sins and crimes.”

He shrugs elegantly. “No one’s perfect, of course. It just serves to make you more interesting, in some ways. So ruthless and cunning to get what you want. Which is usually to protect those you love, such as Aziraphale.” Death pauses to chuckle. “I was quite happy when you two finally realized how deeply you cared for each other.”

Crowley’s face flushes red, as it hasn’t in ages. “Seriously?” she mutters, exasperated and humiliated in equal parts.

“When you live as long as I do, you have to find your entertainment somewhere. You two are a soap opera six thousand and some years in the making.”

Well, he has a point there, so Crowley lets it go.  “May I…May I ask a favor, Death?”

“You may ask.”

“Castiel…when I told him about my past, he said that he recalled a bit about Sariel…I, apparently, knew Aziraphale then. Did he know that? Did he know I was Sariel, his friend?”

“No. After you Fell, Michael wiped Aziraphale’s memory of his bond with Sariel, and forbade anyone from speaking of it.”

She trembles in shock. “I…did I really disobey to protect him?”

“Indeed.”

Again, she hesitates. “About that favor, then…Could you…could you restore my memories?”

“That I can do,” he nods kindly. "Yes."


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories and Memorial

 

Memories flood back in a rush, all at once.

_She is Sariel. She was Sariel. She was a Principality, one of the eldest angels after the archangels. She was Sariel, “beloved of God” and called “the light of God”. She was a warrior, a leader. She was the angel of Death himself. She was a healer too, powerful and stern but kind._

_She was well-known and respected and powerful and a bit feared. She had a reputation of curtness and a sharp tongue, with no patience for dithering, but also possessed unexpected kindness, such as her healing. She loathed how Michael dawdled about in his righteousness and speeches, couldn’t stand such nonsense._

_There was Death, too. She worked both with him and for Heaven. The natural order, that was her domain. Life and death, love and hate, war and peace, night and day. She was to maintain that order. Whether that meant assisting Death or counseling other angels. Death was a part-time employer—a friend, too. Offering advice and counsel and amusement and companionship and wisdom._

_She was fearsome on the battlefield, a powerful foe, second to only the archangels—a skilled and precise fighter, an excellent swordsman, a fast flier._

_There were so many things she did…so much for her younger brothers and sisters. She taught so many to fly, healed their wounds, taught them about the balance and natural order of life. She remembers showing one the little grey fish that crawled from the sea and breathed air for the first time. She remembers warning one of her brothers, “Don’t step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish.”_

_So many fond moments of watching them learn and grow and fly and laugh and smile. So many angels that she cared for and looked after._

* * *

 

They hurry to the church, dreading what they will find—no matter what they find. Every possibility is equally dreadful and terrifying.

They find Dean unconscious and utterly human in a chair. Safe, unhurt, and so very human again.

"Dean!" His brother exclaims, rushing to remove his bindings and wake him.

Slowly, as he is released, Dean begins to stir, eventually returning to consciousness. "…Sammy?" He croaks.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me," he replies, pulling his brother into a hug. "You're fine, you're human. You're alright."

"I know, I can tell," he slowly stands up, leaning on Sam for support. "What about Crowley?"

They find her a bit behind the devil's trap for Dean, her still body prone upon the floor, crumpled in a small heap. She had curled up on her side, limbs pulled close like a snake wrapped up in a protective ball.

In a simple emerald button up blouse and dark jeans, she appears so very small and vulnerable. With her sharp business suits and elegant dresses, she had always seemed untouchable, unapproachable—beyond the reach of even death.

Not so now.

Her wings are gone and only the dark imprints upon the floor give any indication they existed. Large swathes and delicate lines of ash show how her wings had been curled around her protectively in her final moments.

None of them dare speak as they observe the still-warm corpse sadly until Bobby crouches next to her and gently closes her vacant grey eyes.

"She actually did it," Kevin murmurs. "No more demons. Ever. Wow."

Sam glances up from beside his brother. "She really did it."

Castiel steps forward abruptly, staring intently down at the former Queen of Hell. "Cas?" Dean asks in concern. The angel kneels and picks up a small downy white feather, holding it gently in the cup of his palm. "What's that?"

"An angel feather," he replies softly.

"Wait—but her wings were black, right?" Sam questions. "Whose is it?"

"It is Crowley's," Castiel replies softly, still studying the feather in fascinated reverence. "It…it means she was redeemed. It means she died an angel. Crowley was forgiven."

Bobby laughs quietly in awe. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmurs to himself, and smiles sadly. "She wasn't half bad after all." They don't mention how the old hunter's words are thick with grief.

"Hunter's funeral, right?" Kevin quietly asks.

Sighing, Bobby nods. "Yeah. I told her we would."

* * *

 

_Above all, however, there was Aziraphale. Another Principality. Kind and thoughtful and intellectual and gentle and patient and understanding. He saw through her sternness, smiled through the vitriol that spilled from her tongue when she was impatient or angry, and noticed how she looked after their younger brothers and sisters so subtly._

_He understood her in a way none of the others could. So close they became, spending time together whenever they could._ SarielAndAziraphale _, they were. Nearly one organism, as if they had sewn their Graces together and the stitches had long since faded._

_Finishing each other’s sentences and speaking without words and sharing secret grins and flying together, twisting and turning about each other through the air, a gravitational pull between them._

* * *

 

_Love, she realized too late._

_She loved him._

_Far, far too much._

* * *

 

> **_Bobby,_ **
> 
> **_I write these letters as I wait to complete the Third Trial. Four hours left, I believe._ **
> 
> **_In all my years, I have always known that I was immortal, but that I would, of course, die. My lifestyle was not conducive to long life. I remain surprised that I have lived this long. To finally know that the hour of my death approaches is…strange. Sobering, I suppose, but a relief._ **
> 
> **_Know this, my friend: I do not regret this. I am so weary. So tired. And I have been for so very long…to sleep, at last, will be a relief. Some fear the oblivion that follows death, but oblivion does not truly exist for humans, not really. I think…Angels…when angels die, their Grace is ripped apart and scattered throughout Creation. True oblivion. No heaven, no hell, no purgatory—not for us. Not for me._ **
> 
> **_After six thousand years…oblivion will be peace. Finally. No more depression, no more fear, no more loneliness._ **
> 
> **_I cannot thank you enough for all you and the boys have done for me, nor can I apologize for all I have done. I only ever had the best intentions, even if I was…misguided at times. Making up for past mistakes is impossible but…I can try. Attached you will find next week’s winning lottery numbers for a jackpot of several million. You deserve it, my friend, and so much more. This is the very least I can do._ **
> 
> **_In the way of business, it is worthwhile to mention that, for the Second Trial—rescuing an innocent soul from Hell…well. I rescued that of Adam Milligan, the boys’ half-brother, from the Cage. His soul resides in heaven, with no recollection of Hell or the apocalypse. He is at peace._ **
> 
> **_I only have one final request of you, my friend. Drink something other than your damned rotgut for once—maybe some nice whisky (I left you a few bottles in the bunker’s liquor cabinet.) I swear—you’d better do it for my sake. Or else I will find a way to haunt you._ **
> 
> **_The advice you once gave me—that I was more than my title. That changed me more than you think. Thank you for everything, Bobby._ **
> 
> **_Crowley, formerly Sariel_ **
> 
>  

* * *

_When Lucifer rebelled and the war started, they were in the same elite garrison, working fluidly beside each other without ever colliding, caught in each other’s orbit. Always able to look out for each other and protect each other._

_Even their down time was spent together._

_“Do you ever wonder?” she eventually asked softly, as they settle upon a hill overlooking a verdant, lovely valley. “About Lucifer?”_

_“What about him?” Aziraphale asked curiously._

_She shrugged. “I don’t know, just…what he says about humanity. Do you ever think about it?”_

_“Not particularly. I take it you have?”_

_“A bit. All our Father does is speak of how great humanity will be, all the things they will do, all that we must do for them,” she replied softly. “At least, according to Gabriel.”_

_“How is Gabriel? I haven’t seen him much recently.”_

_“Busy trying to calm the discord of it all, trying to keep the family together,” Sariel murmured. “But he often talks to me when he’s stressed. He knows I won’t go and tell all the others…well, just you, but that’s obvious. Neither of us are exactly loose-lipped, which he knows.”_

_Aziraphale hummed._

_She continued, “They’re the apple of His eye, you know. He’s fawning over them, so excited. I…I kind of  understand where Lucifer’s coming from. We were His favorite children, we loved him most, and suddenly—He makes these flawed, weak, blind creatures and commands that we love and serve them, even more so than our Father? It’s…it’s strange, you have to admit.”_

_“It’s our Father,” the blond angel said simply. “Who are we to question?”_

_She shook her head, curls ruffling as she did so. “I’m not questioning, just…thinking. I feel bad for Lucifer. He was our Father’s favorite, you know? And suddenly, he’s all but replaced in our Father’s affections. That has to hurt—being discarded so suddenly by the one you love most. It’d be like…like you suddenly deciding Uriel was your best friend and practically just forgetting me entirely. Or something like that,” Sariel murmured sadly. “I can’t imagine that pain.”_

_He reached over to grasp her hand comfortingly, and she smiled sadly to him._

_“I just feel bad for Lucifer,” she added. “He isn’t a bad person, not really. We’ve known him all our lives! He taught us to fly, showed us the stars, helped us groom our wings. He helped raise us as fledglings. He’s hurting…that’s all.”_

_“I think we all are,” Aziraphale agreed sadly._

* * *

 

> **_Moose and Squirrel,_ **
> 
> **_Hello, boys._ **
> 
> **_For you, I suppose I must explain myself—mind you, it’s an explanation, not an excuse. I apologize in advance._ **
> 
> **_You were always right to mistrust me. I have never been plain with you in my intentions, never fully honest and forthright. Aziraphale once told me I could be Machiavellian at times (admittedly, he was speaking in regards to chess, but he was not incorrect)…_ **

It’s an explanation, because they deserve one. It comes close to an apology as she explains how she had been manipulating Dean recently—for fear that the Mark would do something to him. She hadn’t known what, but it was better safe than sorry, and it turned out for the best. After that, she throws in brief tricks she knows about hunting and useful spells. Hell will be closed, but Purgatory won’t be. There will be plenty of monsters for them to hunt, if they wish.

> **_…for the love of Go- of Sa—oh for somebody’s sake. Please, just…don’t allow hunting to consume your life. Things should not be so…rough, now. The apocalypse is permanently halted, the Leviathan scattered, demons shut away, and the angels settled. Of course, there will always be ghosts and vamps and monsters but…they know what has happened. They won’t be drawing attention to themselves for quite some time._ **
> 
> **_So, you both just…find some time for yourselves now that this mess is all over. Have lives outside of hunting. Find someone special and be happy with them. Find love, please. I have known it and lost it; so have you. But please…don’t swear off it in fear. You_ ** **can _be happy. You can find special someones—whether they’re human or angel, well, that doesn’t matter—as long as you’re happy._**
> 
> **_I hope you understand my reasons for everything…and maybe, in time, can begin to forgive me. (Oh, please. I’m not expecting you to be weeping at my funeral or name your kids after me. Just, come to peace with it all.) I hope you find happiness. After all of this…you deserve it._ **
> 
> **_Good luck._ **
> 
> **_Crowley_ **

* * *

_Between battles, she spent her time teaching him healing, showing him how to help their brothers and sisters. Healing was a complicated skill, one she learned from Raphael long ago, before he became so embittered. Because they were not mortal creatures, not really—it was their Grace and wings that were wounded in battle._

_She showed him how to soothe the pain, how to right the feathers, how to coax their Grace into recovery, how to help them return to flight._

_It was a lucky thing that she had taken him on as a pupil._

_In the next battle they fought in, she found herself facing Lucifer himself in a surprise attack. His blade pierced her left wing and pinned her down, as Lucifer twisted the blade while she screamed._

_“Sariel!”_

_From nowhere, Aziraphale darted in and knocked him away from her, sending him rolling away as the Principality landed atop of his friend._ _“Go,” she snapped and shoved Aziraphale off her and away, standing quickly, blade in hand._

_Lucifer was back on his feet, and they danced as their blades met loudly between them._

_“Truly, Sariel?” he shouted at her. “Do you think you can defeat me? I was the one who taught you who to fly and how to use your blade!”_

_She knocked him away desperately. “I don’t have to defeat you—only keep you away from the others!”_

_“Sariel, I don’t want to hurt you, but if you stand against me, I will do what I have to,” the archangel replied coolly._

_“I know,” she replied, as she batted his sword away from landing a hit on her flank. “But I will do what I must to protect our brothers and sisters.”_

_“Protect them?” he screamed. “You’re fighting them! Do you know how many you’ve killed? A third of our brothers and sisters joined me—and do you have any idea how many of them you’ve killed?”_

_Her movements became quicker, fiercer, as she began an offensive attack. “This is_ your _fault, Lucifer! You started this discord! You broke our family and now so many are dead—because of this war you started! Is that what you wanted?”_

 _“_ NO! _” he roared. “This is not my fault. This is our Father’s! You know it, too—I know  you too well, Sariel—you know that!”_

_She faltered and it was just enough time for him to slam her to the ground, unconscious._

* * *

 

_Sometime later, she woke to see Aziraphale hovering over her, hands on her wings. She felt his Grace caressing her own, healing her wounds._

_“It’s alright,” he murmured. “You’ll be okay, Sariel. I promise.”_

* * *

 

> **_Kevin,_ **
> 
> **_I can never apologize for all I did to you. Not really. The fact that you and your mother are both alive and well, however, is a small consolation for me._ **
> 
> **_Now that this nonsense is over, please, please, please—go to college. I have…adjusted your records and so you are all but guaranteed acceptance anywhere you could possibly want to go. Attached you will find information for an account of mine, now transferred to your name, that contains more than enough to cover your college expenses, as well as provide for you and your mother enough to have a very comfortable life._ **
> 
> **_Go back to school, Kev. Have a life that does not revolve around the supernatural. Don’t forget, don’t lose the family you’ve created in the meantime, but…don’t focus on this madness. Move on._ **
> 
> **_Good luck, m’boy._ **
> 
> **_Crowley_ **

* * *

_Following that incident, Sariel was not allowed to return to battle for sometime, while her Grace healed and she recuperated._

_Aziraphale was, of course, with her the entire time, allowing Sariel her pensive silences, even when they caused her to frown worryingly. She would speak her thoughts when she wanted; it would not do to push her._

_Eventually, one evening, while they are alone, she came to him and spoke in whispers._

_“Zira, do you ever think about our Father’s view of this war?” she asked softly._

_He paused. “I…well, of course, I’m sure He’s aggrieved to see His children so divided and to see the violence, but…”_

_“I have,” she replied. “I’ve spent much time thinking about it, you see. Lucifer…I can’t help but…_ wonder _…I mean, he was created as he is. Our Father made him with his utmost devotion and love, with his occasional… dissent. He made Lucifer that way. In some way…mustn’t He have known this would happen? Or, maybe…wanted this to hap—”_

_His hand covered her mouth quickly. “You mustn’t, Sariel,” he murmured. “Please. I’ve wondered the same, but we mustn’t speak of it. If anyone heard you…if the archangels heard you…you know they would cast you out.”_

_Sariel pulled away from his hand. “I can’t help but think, Zira. What if He doesn’t even want us to continue fighting? Michael…Michael is furious. He’s so arrogantly_ wounded _at what he sees is Lucifer’s unnaturalness and betrayal. He’s hurt and he’s become angry to deal with it—and he’s ordering us to fight. So many of our brothers are fighting and dying—for what? I don’t understand.”_

_He embraced her tightly. “I think…we aren’t meant to understand.”_

_“It’s not fair,” she whispered into his shoulder, their wings mingling and wrapping around the pair of them. “To anyone. We’re fighting our brothers and sisters—killing them—being killed by them. For what? What have we to gain? Nothing. Michael merely seeks to recover his wounded pride and return to that cold impassivity he usually possesses.”_

_“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered into her hair. “I know. But you can’t disobey. You—you wouldn’t, would you?”_

_The angel of death was silent and he tightened his arms around her. “Sariel—please, you can’t. Please don’t leave me.”_

_“You’re the only reason I haven’t left,” she murmured in response sadly. “Otherwise…I’d leave. I don’t exactly want to fight for Lucifer, I just…I just don’t want to fight anymore. You’re the only reason I have to stay.”_

* * *

 

> **_Castiel, my dear brother,_ **
> 
> **_I do not remember much of life as Sariel, but I recall enough to know you and I were very close. I felt quite…maternal toward you, I suppose. Protective, fond. You were so awed and enchanted by our Father’s creations. You were fascinated by the life He made and utterly amazed at the idea of humanity. That wonder…I still see it today. I see it in you when you are with the Winchesters._ **
> 
> **_At the moment, you are in charge of Heaven. I know you are not happy with this, but…I am writing to help with that…_ **

 She offers her advice on administration. She’s run Hell for a long time now, she’s learned plenty. That poor little birdbrain, he didn’t think himself a leader, but he needed to be. At least for a while. Until he and Gadreel could remind them all of their mission, until his lieutenant Hannah could assume leadership.

> **_…Maybe, once things are settled, you can hang up the halo for good. You are very much an angel, but…you don’t have to be. Humanity is a wondrous gift, and you can be human. You can be human again with Sam and Dean, be a hunter, live in the bunker, have a life, have free will. Grace for choice, yes?_ **
> 
> **_Or not, I suppose. You learned free will long ago, Cas. I envy you that. Grace and choice are what I have always striven for—to do my part, to help our siblings, to complete our mission, to protect humanity…but also to make my own choices, to live, to love._ **
> 
> **_This is what I hope for you. It’s a pleasant thought. I can easily imagine it, and I believe you would be quite happy. Maybe there are happy endings sometimes._ **
> 
> **_And this…this is mine. I will be at peace, finally._ **
> 
> **_Your sister,_ **
> 
> **_Crowley, formerly Sariel_ **

* * *

_It took time for Sariel to heal enough to return to battle._

_When she did, she found new orders.  Michael stationed Sariel and Aziraphale at separate areas, splitting them up, despite her arguments._

_It was their undoing._

_Without Sariel at his back, Aziraphale was a much less powerful fighter. He wasn’t as skilled or quick as her._

_She heard his cry in the middle of battle, and didn’t even think about the fact that she was abandoning her (important) post to protect him. Azrael screamed at her, in the middle of fighting three Fallen herself, and yelling for her to return to her position._

_Sariel did not._

_She arrived just in time to stop an angel blade from killing him. With a twist of her sword, the attacker died instead and she hauled Aziraphale up so she could see his injuries and heal him immediately._

_“Sariel,” he murmured, devastated in a battlefield of desolation and suffering. “You…you promised.”_

_She smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Zira. But…it was my choice.”_

* * *

 

_Yes, Aziraphale she saved._

_But because of her absence at her critical post, two garrisons were entirely decimated and important ground lost. The battle ended up a draw, because of her._

_She couldn’t bring herself to care._

* * *

 

_Afterwards, she was healing the wounded with Aziraphale when Gabriel arrived, grim-faced, with a summons from Michael._

_She finished with her patient and went to her friend. “I’m sorry, Zira, but I couldn’t just watch you die. Tell Castiel and the others I said goodbye.”_

_Gently, he pulled her into his arms. “Thank you, my dear Sariel. I don’t know what’s going to happen but…you know you are most dear to me of all,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ve made me who I am today.”_

_Sariel smiled softly, sadly. “You have not left me unchanged either, Zira. I don’t know what will happen to me or to you, but…you have changed me. Despite what Michael or any of the others think…I do believe it was for good.”_

_With trembling lips, she pressed her lips to his cheek and turned to go with Gabriel._

_“Why’d you do it, kid?” he asked as they fly, knowing what was coming._

_She shrugged, drained. “I’m tired of seeing so many die. They’re our brothers and sisters! I don’t understand why Michael and Lucifer persist in fighting at the cost of our siblings’ lives. I just want it to end. And I…I couldn’t watch Zira die knowing I could prevent it. Orders or not…I would not watch him, too, die pointlessly.”_

_They said nothing more before she nodded goodbye and went to Michael._

* * *

 

_There was yelling. Shouting. Screaming. Lots of it._

_From both her and Michael._

_“How dare you?!” her eldest brother eventually shouted. “How_ dare _you love someone more than our Father?!”_

_She glared, jaw shut tightly, wings still and tight at her back._

_He sneered. “You don’t even deny it, Sariel! Of all things I might have expected of you—of the strongest Principality, of one of the greatest fighters, of the Angel of Death and Healing, of the Angel of Order and Balance…I did not once expect this of you.”_

_Said angel glared. “I regret nothing. Aziraphale is alive because of me. I cannot regret that. No matter the consequences.”_

_Michael glared coldly. “So be it.”_

* * *

 

Later, as they prepare to light the pyre, the group of hunters pause.

Laid out simply on the wood with a single white rose under her hands, a faint smile resting upon her pale face, she is lovely but so very small and innocent looking. It's disconcerting and saddening all at once.

Made worse by the small white feather tucked in her hands and the letters they had found.

Dean coughs before he speaks. “Crowley, you were a sneaky, manipulative bitch who never shared your true intentions until after the fact,” he pauses. “But…that wasn’t always a bad thing. Hell, I kinda even liked you. A little. You…you told me you were tired of living this life. So I hope…well, I hope you can rest now.”

Sam hesitates before he adds, “Crowley, you were a lot of things. To a lot of people. Mostly bad things, admittedly, but…I mean, you fought the apocalypse every time, you tried to stop us from breaking the world again, and you helped us fix Heaven. You…you were a good person, even if we didn’t really see it until the end. None of us would be here without you so…thanks.

“And…during the Third Trial, you told me you just wanted to be loved. And…you were. I know Aziraphale loved you, from how you and others spoke of him. And also…in some way, you were a part of Team Free Will, which practically means you were family. You were loved and you'll be missed. I don't know what happens to angels when they die but I hope you and Aziraphale are together again.”

The teen beside him is in tears, visibly searching for words. “Thanks for…well, everything I guess. Except the torture. Coulda done without that. Otherwise…thanks, Crowles.”

There's a heavy pause before Bobby mutters, “Balls.”

He sighs heavily. “Crowley… we had our issues, _God_ _knows_ we had plenty of those. But you were decent. Despite everything, you were…well. You were a sarcastic little fucker who enjoyed fucking with people's heads, but I admire your dedication and moments of unexpected mercy. You were harsh and sharp but underneath that, you were a softie. Ain't nothing wrong with that. I hope you're finally at peace and with Aziraphale as you deserve.”

To his left, Castiel hesitates. “Rest in peace, sister,” he eventually murmurs softly, a small tear trailing down his cheek, and sets the pyre ablaze.

* * *

 

_She fell._

_She didn’t remember much, not really, but Lucifer found her quickly and helped her become strong._

_Crawly, as she was newly named, did not remember much of being Sariel, much less what caused her Fall—not that it mattered._

_Her first orders were to go to earth and stir up some trouble._

_Unintentionally, she found herself causing far more trouble than she intended, but…too late to change that._

_She also found herself in the presence of an angel._

_One who didn’t smite her on sight. A blond, cheerful, thoughtful angel who was rather good company. Surprisingly, she liked him. And he seemed to like her quite well._

_It was strange. The rest of the Fallen—they didn’t care for her much. She didn’t really have friends or co-conspirators or whatever they were called; Crawly thought herself rather unlikable, not that she minded. That made it so much easier to annoy and aggravate others. And to lie and manipulate them, because they did not know her, despite how closely she watched the others._

_No, unlike the Fallen…she found herself rather liking this angel rather soon._

Of all the angels, this one is her favorite…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is after this point that Gabriel vanishes, unable to watch his siblings fight. 
> 
> The final line was also the first. Everything connects.
> 
> (There's an epilogue coming, don't worry too much.)


	38. Chapter 38

There’s a quote that says something along the lines of ‘Once upon a time, an angel and a devil held a wishbone between them. Its snap split the world in two.’

This may or may not be correct, depending on your view. But I can tell you this.

Heaven and hell once held a fallen angel between them. The victor of this tug of war changes the fate of the world.

But. Heaven and hell once held a fallen angel between them. It broke her.

* * *

 

Not all breaks are irreparable.

* * *

 

"Come on, boys," Bobby says as Dean parks the Impala.

"Bobby, why're we here again?" said hunter grumbles.

"Because their online inventory says they own a copy of that manuscript we need for the spell, but it's not for sale. So we might have to break in and borrow it later tonight if I can't convince them to sell, idgit. Did ya sleep through what I said at the bunker or are you goin deaf?"

"Alright, alright," he mutters in defeat. “Wait—so why’d we bring the kid then?”

Kevin sighs. “I wanted to come, Dean. Remember—I actually like books and reading.”

“Weird,” he mutters in response as they enter the shop.

It’s a spacious bookshop tucked away from the busy streets of the city. The floors are solid hardwood, and the walls are lined in matching bookcases. An elegant wrought-iron spiral staircase in the center of the shop leads up to the second floor, which was made up of catwalks and balconies, leaving most of the space open and airy. A few small, verdant potted plants were scattered about, making the space more comfortable. It was a beautiful bookshop, really, with a huge collection of tomes old and new.

The bell over the door jingles lightly as they enter.

“One second and I’ll be with you!” someone calls from a few bookshelves over. A moment later, a blond man emerges, adjusting his glasses. “Ah, sorry,” the Brit smiles. “I was reorganizing a shelf. What can I help you w—”

“Darling!” calls a woman with a similar accent from the second floor, leaning over the balcony. “Where did you put that Milton manuscript?” The dark-haired woman glances from the man to the customers quickly, eyes soft. Dressed in a simple button-up and pencil skirt, she cut a familiar figure.

“West wall, third shelf from the left, Sariel dear,” he replies with a smile to her before turning back to them. “Sorry, my wife—we own the shop. Would one of you happen to be a Mr Crowley?”

“That’d be me,” Bobby nods, but hesitates, eyes shifting from the man and to his wife. It’d been three months since Crowley’s death. He didn’t know why he’d added her names to their ever-changing list of aliases, but it felt like honoring her.

“Oh, really?” the bookshop owner smiles brightly. “Sariel—my wife—her maiden name was Crowley. Any relationship, you think?”

All four of them gape, though Bobby coughs and recovers from the surprise. “No, um, probably not. Not from around here, you know, mister…”

“Did you forget to introduce yourself again, angel?” The slender woman walks from the spiral staircase to their little group and curls an arm about the man’s waist.

The blond smiles cheerfully. “Maybe,” he admits but looks to the customers with a happy grin. “Sorry, gentlemen. We’re the owners of the shop, Zira and Sariel Fell. Now, what can we help you with?”

* * *

 

A few cities away from the Men of Letters bunker, there is a bookshop, run by a soft-bodied blond man in glasses and tartan sweaters, and a neatly-dressed slender woman with elegantly-coifed black hair and piercing grey eyes.

There, in the little shop, the two are happy together, living above it in a small but comfortable flat.

Mr Zira Fell, reads the man’s name tag upon his tartan sweater, when he remembers to wear it. In the mornings, she will remind him as she dons her wedding rings and places her own name tag upon her blouse, bearing the name Mrs Sariel Fell. This has become routine and she merely smiles in amusement and kisses him, before they go downstairs to open up Grace & Choice Bookshop.

They are human and they are happy.

They couldn’t ask for more.

* * *

 

_“ ‘Well?’ she said._

_‘Well what?’ he answered._

_‘Where’s the end of the play?’_

_… ‘Who said the end was written yet?’ ”_

_- Wicked, Gregory Macguire_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the end, of sorts. I’m not going to write anymore, so it’s up to you to decide what happens. If Crowley and Aziraphale remember. If they are human. If they really died. How they were reunited.
> 
> If they work with Team Free Will and become a part of the family. If they remain ignorant and happy.
> 
> Just know that they are alive, they are together, and they are happy.
> 
> Whatever it is you decide, though…know it is happy. After all, that’s all Crowley has ever wanted: a happy life with Aziraphale.


End file.
